


What Surrounds His Soul

by TheWritingSquid



Series: Disaster Dad [9]
Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, BITTERSWEET HAPPY BUT IT'S THERE, Background Morrison, Background Shadow, Bonding Over Poetry, Canon-Typical Violence, Dadgil, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Implied Torture, Late-Chapters Confused Lady/Vergil, Ruining the Perfectly Fluffy AU Like Nobody's Business, Toddler Nero
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-22
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2020-10-24 11:14:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 64,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20705069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWritingSquid/pseuds/TheWritingSquid
Summary: In which an old enemy comes calling, shattering a year of peace and forever changing their lives.





	1. In Broad Daylight, A Fracture

**Author's Note:**

> With apologies, but no regrets.
> 
> [P.S.: While this fic stands on its own, I do recommend reading the rest of the series before this one, as it is sort of a Season Finale for it.]

_ They always come at dusk. I sleep during the day now, to be alert when they come. Mundus's foot soldiers are spindly, their twisted bodies hidden by ragged cloaks, but they are fast and their curved blades deadly. As long as they do not take me by surprise, however, they pose no problems. Their fighting is mindless and repetitive, unworthy of my time. Nothing but cannon fodder to feed my blade. _

~ ~ ~

The phone’s shrill ring drew Dante out of his nap, and for a moment he considered flinging his magazine at it. One thing was certain: he wasn’t answering that shit. It’d take just a few minutes of silence for him to doze off again, if he didn’t move, if he just stayed there with his legs thrown over the end and his eyes gently closed off. But then the phone hit the sixth ring and kept going, and that could only mean one thing. Dante rolled off the couch, stumbled to his desk, and picked it up.

“What do you want, Lady?” he asked, his mouth still pasty from the nap.

“Where the _ fuck _ are you?”

Oh, angry. Was he supposed to be somewhere? Dante rubbed his eyes. Pretty sure he wasn’t. “Until five seconds ago, on m’couch, sleeping.”

That earned him a loud swear. “Morrison said you were already at the scene! What, you killed half the demons, got bored, and went home for a nap?”

What was she even talking about? Morrison hadn’t called him for any job today--which was good, because the damn man had turned out more efficient than Dante had first thought (to Lady’s great delight) and constantly ruined his lazy afternoon plans. He was still on trial (which mostly meant Lady had to hold her laughter every time he called Dante ‘Tony’), but honestly, they’d had a great string of jobs since he’d started looking for them. Whatever this one was, though, Dante had not been in on the loop.

“Woah, hey, chill right there Lady.” He plopped down in his wooden chair and threw his legs on the desk. “What scene?”

She didn’t answer immediately, but the repetitive bangs of gunshots was explanation enough for the delay. Dante whistled as he waited, wiggling his toes. He ought to look for socks. She was gonna ask him to come over, he could just feel it. The phone rattled, and Lady was back.

“Morrison was listening to police airwaves again. He caught exchanges about an assault, but the officers wouldn’t mention shootings and were evasive about the source. According to him, what details they shared sounded like demons, then they said a deadly white-haired swordsman had been sighted. So he called me for backup, since you weren’t cleaning up fast… enough...”

Dante’s stomach sank as she trailed off, his own brain catching up at the same time as hers. Morrison would have no way to know the city housed two deadly, white-haired swordsmen, so he’d taken the most logical guess. But Dante had been snoozing all afternoon… leaving only his brother.

“Fuck,” Dante said.

“He’s not here.” 

Dante hated the note of alarm in her tone. He didn’t blame her. He couldn’t even see the scene and his skin prickled with it. Something about all this was seriously wrong. Why would Vergil only fight half of them and vanish? It wasn’t like him, this sort of sloppiness. And after Phantom had come so close almost two months ago… Dante kicked himself out of his chair and snapped the Rebellion up.

“Where did you say this shit was?” he asked.

“Einstein and Eddington corner,” Lady supplied, and a brand new knot added itself to Dante’s stomach. That was Vergil’s neighbourhood all right (of course he’d picked the fancy one with scientist names). 

“On my way.” He was gonna shatter all those speed limits, cops be damned. “And Lady… Fuck those demons. Find Nero, if he’s there.”

He smashed the phone on its receiver, half-convinced by the rattling sound that he might have broken it. Whatever. Dante was already halfway across the room, shoving socks, boots, and coat on, before sticking Ivory and Ebony in their holsters, grabbing Rebellion again, and heading out of the door and on his bike in a flash, his blood pumping so hard he could feel the demonic energy roiling inside. This didn’t mean shit. Vergil could’ve fled with Nero, left the demons behind to protect his son. He would. That was a perfectly reasonable explanation.

Yet somehow Dante knew it was wrong, knew the increase of demons lurking in this neighbourhood had something to do with it, knew he should’ve warned Vergil instead of pulling all-nighters stalking the area. But it’d stopped abruptly after they'd killed Phantom, and Dante hadn’t wanted to worry his twin when the problem seemed solved.

That was the thing with them, wasn’t it? Problem was never solved. There was always one more demon ready to fuck with them. Dante gripped the bike’s handles tighter as he swerved between cars, praying he wouldn’t be too late.

###

He was too late.

He knew the instant his eyes rested on Nero, standing in the park, sliced demon bodies all around him, the Yamato’s sheathe clutched in his hands while the katana lay on the ground. Kid’s hair was pink and red from blood, he had drops of it on his cheeks, and he was staring at a single point in space, obviously in shock. The sight was like a claw had torn through Dante’s chest, burning hot, so painful the edges of his sight turned black and thick dark scales appeared on his arms.

“Nero.”

Dante dropped the bike, and the crash made Lady jump. He’d barely noticed her by Nero’s side, crouched and awkwardly trying to talk to him. Dante sprinted towards them, and Nero slowly turned his head to watch him approach. He didn’t move when Dante opened his arms for a hug, only clung to the Yamato’s sheathe tighter.

“Z-zio?”

“I’m here. I’m here, Nero.” His throat was thick as shit, and he probably didn’t sound half as reassuring as he’d wanted (he was kind of panicking inside, which didn’t help). Dante pulled Nero into a hug, squeezing him tight despite the long katana sheathe between them (and why the fuck was that not with Vergil?). Nero didn’t react much to the hug either, apart from leaning his bloodied face against Dante. “Are you hurt, lil’ bud?”

A pause. Dante and Lady exchanged worried glances. Nero had grown into a talkative boy and rarely thought long about his answers.

“Da’ is--”

Dante shut his eyes and squeezed him harder. “You first, Nero. I gotta know if you’ve got wounds to tend to.”

Nero sniffed and shook his head.

“I couldn’t find any,” Lady provided. “Dante, you think--”

“He’s fine.” For such a big fat lie, Dante sure managed to put a lot of conviction into it. If Vergil was remotely fine, he wouldn’t have left his kid behind. Whatever had happened, Nero knew some of it, but he didn’t look about to spill it out. Still. Dante would need him to. The sooner he knew, the faster he could track down Vergil and give him a hand. “C-Can you clean up here, Lady? Ash whatever demons are left, get Morrison to pay us. I’m on uncle duty.”

“Sure thing.” She reached for the kid’s hair, ruffling them (a rare show of affection, coming from her), and scanned the surrounding area. The demons left seemed to be stragglers, prowling through the park and gnawing at their victims. “Never seen ‘em come out in the day so much. Easy pickings, but all that blood… there was a lot of ‘em, Dante. I’ll keep an eye out for any clues.”

“You’re a real MVP, Lady. I’ll be at Vergil’s place until you’re done.”

She quirked a smile. “Don’t let him catch you emptying his fridge!”

Lady retrieved her pistols and headed off, letting her quip hang in the air, a silent acknowledgement that they’d ignore the obvious problem of Vergil's disappearance until they were ready to solve it. Dante tried to pry the Yamato out of Nero’s hands, but the kid half-growled at him. Eyebrows raised, he let it go, picked up his small nephew, and headed down the street, to Vergil’s nearby flat. Leaving the scene felt like abandoning his twin, yet if he’d learned one thing about his brother since they’d reunited, it was that he ought to make Nero his priority, no matter the cost.

###

Dante had officially found the one thing he hated the most in the world: the catatonic, almost vacant state his boisterous nephew had gone into. Nero shouldn’t be this quiet. It was awful. Just. Gut-wrenching, I-might-actually-puke awful. It didn’t help that Dante had no clue what the fuck he was doing, and Nero sure wasn’t telling him if he was messing shit up. He’d gotten the kid out of his clothes and into the shower, which he’d totally forgotten to warm up beforehand. Nero hissed at the cold water but didn’t even move out of it, so Dante just hurried with the squid-shaped sponge he found, then with the blue shampoo, to wash out the blood. He was pretty sure he got some in Nero’s eyes, but that didn’t give him any reaction either. 

By the time Nero was fully dressed again, Dante couldn’t take it anymore. He set the kid down on the counter and wrapped large hands around his shoulders, staring into pale, almost absent blue eyes.

“Kid. Nero. Ya gotta talk to me. Anything, all right? Ya can scream and cry too, I don’t care.” He gestured widely at the air, more to burn some of his nervous jitters than anything else. “Just. Say something.”

Nero looked away. His tiny hands grabbed the hem of his shirt and he twisted it around, but he remained silent. Dante sighed. He didn’t want to brusque the kid, but how was he supposed to find Vergil without some info?

“You saw it, didn’tcha? What happened to your dad?”

This time he got a nod out of Nero--a tiny one, barely noticeable, but after all the stunned silence, Dante wanted to scream in victory. He resisted the urge to try and shake the story out of Nero right away, instead pulling him into another big hug.

“I’m sorry, kid. I--fuck, you’re even younger than we were.”

No one snapped at him for swearing, and the silence there left a hollow pit in Dante’s stomach. He held on tight to his nephew, filling that hole with anger, sewing it over with spite and determination. This shit wasn’t happening again. He wouldn’t let it. Dante pulled away just enough to kiss the top of Nero’s still-drying forehead, then he bent the knees enough to be eye-level with him.

“Lissen to me. I’m gonna find your dad. He’ll be back. We’ll do Spardaghettis and singalongs and tons of cool shit together again. This is just a bad day, Nero. Bad days are part of life.” And when you lived with the Sparda name, bad days tended to be actual fucking hell. “This is like… an adventure, yeah? An adventure with Zio Dante.”

As if. Fuck, Dante could hear the thinness in his own voice. How was he supposed to remotely reassure Nero? And besides, how was he supposed to find Vergil while taking care of the kid? This was a disaster, and Dante felt like he was making it worse with every word he said, every second he let slip by. He wanted to run out and grab the Rebellion and kill demons until one of them finally told him what he needed to know. Just rip through the underworld until he had his brother back, no matter what that took.

He almost did. Almost ran out to kill some shit, figuring Lady would find Nero, that for all her complaints about ‘not doing kids’, she handled him all right and wouldn’t abandon him, but then the kid uttered his first words.

“H-he’s gone.” Big tears rushed to the kid’s eyes. “I want my da’.”

It was a quiet wish, without a hint of demand in it, like Nero already understood its pointlessness. Dante could almost hear the cracks form in his own heart. Had what he’d seen been this bad, or was his kiddie’s brain completing the picture? Nero had no idea how unkillable they both were, Vergil and him. He couldn’t know. He’d seen something bad and assumed the worst, unaware of his family’s resilience.

“I want him back, too,” Dante said.

Somehow, he couldn’t bring himself to promise it again. Dante forced himself to ruffle Nero’s hair, then went around the corner and opened the fridge. The week’s dinners were all there, carefully prepared ahead of time and labelled in a quick and precise script. Everything was so crisp and clean, so organized. Dante wanted to fling it all to the ground, upturn it the way their fucking lives had just been. He clenched his teeth and grabbed the Tuesday pot, some sort of soup with beans and veggies in it.

“We’re gonna eat, Nero, cause that’s what your zio does when he feels like shit,” he declared, shoving the soup in Vergil’s microwave. “Lady’s lookin’ into stuff for us, so you and I are together until she shows up. Any time you feel up to tellin’ me anything you saw, you do it, all right?”

Nero never felt up to it. Dante managed to get him to eat, but the kid wouldn’t brawl, not even once armed with his trusty black marker. At one point he handed a book to Dante, a story about a ghost trying on a wide wardrobe in an attempt to make themself visible, but mostly scaring the house’s residents away. It had beautiful drawings, and Nero sometimes muttered some of the lines, but Dante could tell his heart wasn’t into it. He pushed through to the end of the story anyway, shutting down his overactive brain trying to picture Vergil sitting where he was, all too happy to read to his kid, a grinning Nero in his lap.

Eventually Nero wound up on the ground, blank papers all around him, marker in hand, drawing mindlessly. Dante spread on the couch, keeping an eye on the kid’s slow movements, his entire body heavier than he cared to admit. He really didn’t have a fucking clue how to get the kid out of his daze, or if he even should. Vergil had once said something about Nero being weirdly calm and quiet in the demons’ cage (just thinking about it got him pissed all over again), so it wasn’t too hard to guess that was just how the kid dealt with shit. Didn’t make it any easier to watch.

(None of this was easy, and Dante had a hunch it’d only get worse, and fuck but he hated waiting here for Lady even if he knew slaying demons while Nero stayed alone with his thoughts was about as terrible an idea as he’d ever had.)

Lady got there well after dark. She knocked, and he heard her store all her guns in the wardrobe at the entrance, like Vergil would’ve demanded, and that was _ so absurd _ he couldn’t help but laugh--a strangled sound even he could tell held no joy. Nero looked up from his dozen drawings, marker hanging mid stroke, as she joined them in the living room, flicking on a light so they’d be in more than half-darkness. Dante took one look at her (no smiles, slight slump in the shoulder, arms crossed) and he knew her news would be shit.

“No clue, huh?”

She shrugged. It looked casual, but her glance at Nero betrayed her. “Deep gouges in the ground, a shitton of demon remains… I talked to people who were at the park early on, and Vergil was definitely there, too, but they all fled while he drew the Yamato. Morrison says it lasted a whole lot longer than most demon attacks he’s ever gleaned, and those were at night. That shit was a horde, Dante, not an unplanned crossing.”

“In the middle of the day.” It was an attack. He knew it was, damnit, that had been obvious from the start, but he really hadn’t wanted to admit it. Someone had come for Vergil, hard and fast, and he damn well knew who was the most likely culprit. But the last time, there’d been only one goal… “He ain’t dead.”

He said it to convince himself, but Nero’s head snapped up and his marker went way past the border of his sheet, tracing a thick black line on the ground. Lady glared at him.

“Didn’t find a body.”

“H-He’s gone,” Nero said. Twice today, now. Dante frowned.

“What d’ya mean, kid? Like, vanished? Taken?”

Nero stared back at his drawing but gave Dante a small nod. Taken and vanished. If it looked like he had disappeared rather than walked away… His gaze met Lady’s mismatched eyes, and she nodded. 

“Gone through a portal, as they came, with him in tow,” she said. “That’s…”

Dante sat himself up, his heart hammering in his chest. He’d caught Vergil before he fell deep into Hell once, fingers wrapping around his hand at the last moment, shock and shame flaring to life in his brother’s gaze. He hadn’t wanted to be caught, but the moment their hands were clasped together, it’d been too late. Vergil had hated it and he’d radiated a silent fury every step of their way out, only to vanish immediately. Fuck, but they’d come such a long way since. Vergil was in Hell because demons had _ dragged _ him there, and he’d be damned if he let that last. 

“I’m gonna need to find myself a portal, Lady. ASAP.”

“Yeah, ‘cause I can just shit those whenever I want.” She set her hands on her hips. “Then what? You’re just gonna wander in there ‘till you find him? That’s the plan?”

Dante raised his eyebrows and shot her an easy grin before spinning on himself. “When has that not worked out for me?”

“Dante…” She caught his wrist, then his gaze. “I’m serious. I know he hasn’t been training as much, but you two were a match and they got him.”

“It doesn’t matter. I have to try.” He crossed his arms and looked down at her, his smile creeping back. “You of all people know how it is, to risk everything on a feeling--on the scream of a soul. I climbed that tower for _ fun _ and you taught me better. This is still family business, Lady, and I have to see it through.”

She considered her words for a moment, then nodded. “We’ll find you a way in, Dante.”

“We?”

“Yeah. I think we should rope Morrison in.” She flopped down on the couch and threw an arm over the back. “He’s efficient, he doesn’t pry, but he did ask me a few sharp questions that makes me think he knows there’s more to you, and more to this particular attack. Do we need the Tony Redgrave front?”

Dante frowned. He’d played dumb around Morrison to keep him out of his secrets (it worked on most people) even though he rather liked the dude. But Lady was right. He was too damn useful, and Vergil needed them to be as fast as they could. That meant opening up a little to them (ugh), though at least Lady already had _ some _idea of their relationship to Mundus.

First things first, though.

“Let’s get the kid to bed,” he said. Nero was still staring at them, and Dante had no doubt he followed most of the conversation. He hoped he wasn’t putting any wrong ideas in his head. “You sleepy, Nero?”

Nero scowled. “No.”

“It’s early,” Lady pointed out. “You can’t just tell people to go to bed and hope they do.”

“I would! I love sleeping!”

She pinched the bridge of her nose, right where her scar ran, but didn’t bother with a response. Instead, she crouched down next to Nero and his large array of drawings. “How d’you feel, kid? Shaken up a bit?”

He stared at her, silent, and put the top of his marker back on. Kid was so solemn, Dante just wanted to pinch his cheeks until he smiled again or something. Nero instead picked up one of the many drawings and extended it to her. Lady accepted it with a frown. 

“That’s… very nice?” 

Wow, that sounded bad. Dante couldn’t help but yank it from her grasp to get a good look at it. There were bits that looked like trees (or that’s what he’d called lines with a big circle on top, anyway), and in the middle was a single oval, with what _ could _ have been legs, and then a lot of black lines jutting out in all directions. Nero had always been really creative with his drawing, and in the months (over a _ year _, now, shit time flew) he’d been with them, he’d gotten ever better. 

“Looks nifty, kid. Wanna tell me what it is?”

“H-he’s gone. This is--” 

His voice cracked, and he gripped his marker tighter. Dante looked back at the drawing, then at all of those spread around the kid. Some had trees, others had what looked like a slide, a few had a tall human and a small one (he couldn’t bear to look at those; he’d seen Nero draw family like that before), but _ all _of them had this strange creature, four legs and lines. Dante shifted through these and found the one in which it was the biggest. This time, the lines definitely looked like spikes. His palm had grown sweaty. All this time… 

“Nero…” He flipped the drawing around and showed it to the kid. “This is what you saw?”

“It’s… big.” Nero brought his marker closer to him and looked away.

Dante handed the image to Lady without ever letting his gaze leave his small nephew, so obviously upset and at a loss for words. “Is there anything else you remember, Nero? You can draw, too.”

He didn’t--or rather, he already had. Nero scrambled through the pages and got another one out, this one with a vertical oval at its center, out of which came two triangles on the sides. It seemed to have tiny lines under the oval, too. Dante transferred it to Lady without a word.

“You’re doing amazing, kid,” he said. “The best, I promise.”

While Lady held the two drawings at arm’s length, Dante pulled his nephew and brought him close, squeezing him tight against his chest. Nero didn’t hug back, barely moved at all, but Dante felt him relax a little, so he held on longer, keeping a hand through the kid’s hair while he turned to Lady.

“You've got Vergil’s notes, no? Maybe we can find those.”

"We can. He was very thorough. Dunno if it'll lead us anywhere but…" He could sense her doubt, but she just shrugged. “All leads are good leads, right?”

Dante smiled back, even though he could only think of one demon who’d mount an attack in broad daylight--one demon who’d track them down like this and shatter his family again. All leads had only one final destination: Mundus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a perfectly good, fluffy AU, so of course I went and ruined it. I put it in the tags, but I guess it's worth reiterating that I am a writer who loves her happy-ish endings. Still. Ready yourselves, friends. :]
> 
> Chapter number is subject to change; not quite finished writing it yet.


	2. And On the First Night, All Shatters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two brothers -- one in Hell, on in the human realm -- experiencing their first night truly separated

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one's a bit shorter, but hello news from Vergil!
> 
> new tags, though nothing worth a special content warning about (mostly new character tags)

_ Found again. The bird is _ _ huuge__! I felt it coming and crawled into a vent. It’s dirty here, I don’t like it. But I’m shaking too hard to fight. I don’t understand why _ _<strike> I’m afraid</strike>__. Maybe his voice is scary. Or the beat of its wings? Maybe it has fear-related powers! That’s it. Must be it! I am not truly afraid. It’s doing something to my mind, all that swooping and cackling and throwing lightning about. But it won’t find me, and when I grow more powerful, I’ll find _ it. _ It’ll pay for the fear. It’ll pay for _ <strike>_ Mother and Dante _</strike> _ everything. They all will. _

** **

Vergil’s empty.

Dragging him away from Nero had been a mistake on these two demons’ part. Now they’re every bit as bloodied as he is, wounds from countless summoned swords, from his own small claws when he needed. He’d killed dozens of demons before the panther had spiked his wrist and caused him to drop the katana, and a dozen more after, before something yanked his feet from under him and pulled him through a portal, slicing off the sheathe. Even without the Yamato, he’d fought with everything he had, reached to the deepest levels of his power.

And it wasn’t enough.

Of course not.

He’s always known it wouldn’t be. Nothing short of Sparda’s actual power could have protected his family. It was true fifteen years ago, and it still is today. Part of him wants to blame Dante for stopping him at the Temen-ni-gru; he’s done that for a decade, before, and it has grown into an easy habit. Without Dante, though, he wouldn’t have a family to protect. He would have found Hell long before he’d have found Nero.

At least he’s alone here, he tells himself.

Funny, that. The first time Mundus broke his family, he hadn’t wanted to be alone. He’d crawled back to the smoking wreckage of the house and curled up in a corner, clutching the too-long Yamato, waiting, hoping for his twin’s small footsteps. Told himself he could cry once Dante was there to cry with him. 

He still hasn’t cried. Missed his chance while Dante was around, while they had a tenuous family going. Vergil is alone now--or, well, close enough. The shapeshifting demon is curled near his feet, its form back to that of a great black panther, its wounds shining a strange magenta. It has quite a lot of them, but if it’s worried about a renewed salve of summoned sword, it doesn’t show.

It’d be right not to. Vergil doesn’t have that in him anymore.

He’s in so much pain, it’s hard to think. The cat spiked him to the wall, and the wall grew around him--through him. He was already half-dead by then. The bird laughed, and Vergil wasted most of his remaining power to get a summoned sword through his wing. He doesn’t regret that, if he’s honest. They knocked him out right after, but it was worth it.

Vergil wonders how much time has passed since. He feels like it's night, but of course that is kind of meaningless here. Still. His throat tightens. It's his first night without Nero, and while _ time _might be meaningless, that's not. He'd been thinking to buy a child's bed for him, reorganize the flat so they both fit in the bedroom. He'd been thinking of moving out, even. To a bigger place, one perhaps closer to Dante's. Plans for the future.

_ Mistakes_, a voice tells him, and Vergil crushes it. He's not done for, not ready to give up on that future. This is just one night. He's dealt with a lot of pain in his life--nothing of the scale of what Mundus can inflict, he's sure, but that doesn't mean he can't endure. He is still a Son of Sparda, after all. It's what has landed him here, and it's what will see him through.

Wings flap overhead and Vergil lifts his head. That giant demon bird again, sweeping down. Vergil huffs, annoyed before the other has even opened his mouth. Few demons are smart enough for interesting conversation, but some really should never have been granted the ability to speak.

"Awake yet, princess?"

The voice grates, like a memory half buried. Vergil knows he's heard it before. The first time the demon cackled in their fight, Vergil almost froze, fear jolting through him more thoroughly than any of the demon's lightning. He has an inkling of when, of course--few events in his life have imprinted such terror in his mind--and the bird all but confirms it right after.

"Finally caught ya. You've been a sneaky lil' prey, these last fifteen years. Shouldn't have let ya slip the first time 'round."

As if he'd 'let' it happen. Vergil barely remembers the pursuit. It's a blur of sensations--his feet pounding the packed earth, humidity and smoke in the air, claws clicking behind him. But wings, too. Definitely wings, and the occasional flash of lightning. It’s happened twice, he’s sure: on the fateful night, and again two or three years later, shortly after he started his journal.

"Perhaps you're simply a poor hunter," he says. "Fifteen years is a long time, and I made few efforts to conceal myself."

He'd stayed at the house and waited for Dante for months before demons showed up again. Even after leaving, he'd planted clues about his path that his brother could follow and made sure never to change his name. But it wasn't so much that demons never found him, only that they never caught him. They'd awakened his devil trigger on the first night, and between his newfound power and the Yamato, he had protected himself.

The bird cackles, the sound straight out of Vergil's nightmares. The fear seeps through his exhaustion, leaves him trembling despite himself, and he hates it, hates how he's carried these memories within him for fifteen years and can't reason with them.

"Ya think you're clever, dontcha?" the demon bird asked. "Vergil, the mighty Son of Sparda, who raised the Temen-ni-gru and almost set us loose. We all felt it, ya know, the tear in the veil, the gate opening at last! Been some time now, and the demon world's still awash with rumours about what happened, why it didn’t _ stay _open. Ya almost freed us all!"

Vergil grits his teeth. He's being goaded, mocked for his failure. He shouldn't bite, but he can't help but sneer.

"You'd love to know, wouldn't you?" He tsks and shakes his head, even though it sends spikes of pain through his body. "Even demons are pathetic gossips, it seems."

The great panther emits a low rumble, then, and Vergil can't help but think it sounds _ mocking_. And indeed, the bird flaps his wings angrily and sends a small spark its way.

"Hey, dontcha go agreeing with him!" 

The panther roars at him, and for a brief instant Vergil hopes the two demons will fight. If they do, maybe he'd have a chance… maybe he could trigger, even briefly, stumble out of these bonds. And do what, he doesn't know, but anything is better than waiting for Mundus to come and finish him off. 

Unfortunately, the bird is a coward.

He snaps his beak and flies higher up. "Yea, yea, I know he's Mundus's toy, not mine. Just wanted to get some Griffon-time in, ya know? You're such a spoilsport."

"Griffon." It has to be his name. Demons are never subtle with these things, and this one seems to be particularly lacking in self-censorship or shame. "How unoriginal."

Vergil sees the lightning coming from miles away, but there's not much he can do except grit his teeth as it burns through his body. When white pain seeps out of his vision, he finds himself staring at Griffon, eye-level with him. Vergil's ears ring so hard he can't hear the wings flapping, or whatever inane comment the bird is saying. He stares back, draws strength from his pride, and replies in an ice-cold tone.

"I'll remember your name, Griffon, when the time comes to slice you all into ribbons."

It earns him another laugh. "Aren't you just precious? Battered and beaten and still uttering threats!" He pecks Vergil's head once, sending a lance of pain through his skull and making him flinch. "Mundus is gonna have a field day with ya. Cling to that fire while it lasts, Sparda boy, 'cause you'll need it."

Then he flies off, leaving Vergil alone with the panther. He watches the gigantic wings vanish against the grey horizon and knows he's done the same, once, when he was eight, shimmering blue against the night's sky. Griffon had fled back then, the rest of the demon troops dead at Vergil's feet, the Yamato singing in his too-small hands.

It's the second time Mundus has upturned his life and torn him away from his family, but this time he knows what to expect. Dante isn't going to show up. He's in Hell, alone with Mundus, and he can only rely on his own strength. 

That's all right with him. He trusts Dante to take care of Nero while he's gone. As much as it hurts to have broken that particular promise and failed Nero, it's better to be alone and have him be safe. Vergil closes his eyes, hoping to snatch some rest away. Griffon's right about one thing: he's going to need all of his pride and fire in the coming days.

** **

###

** **

In the end, Dante didn't really tell them shit.

When he had Lady and Morrison sitting in Vergil’s living room, Nero sleeping in his bed at last, knocked out by sheer exhaustion, he faltered. He didn’t like talking about this sorta stuff, and what good would it do, to bring up the past? This shit dragged him down often enough as it was, he didn’t need to call it forth willingly. So Dante gave his real name to Morrison (along with Vergil’s) and told them both they needed to find Mundus, the Prince of Darkness of legends, without ever explaining why he knew for sure. Lady was drilling holes into him with her eyes (he knew Vergil had told her some of it). Morrison took two of Nero’s drawings, thanked Dante for the vote of confidence, then left them.

Lady stayed a while longer. They rang up some pizza and hung out in the living room, Dante devouring one slice after another while she made an initial pass through Vergil’s books, setting aside those she thought might help. He kept commenting on the ominous titles they had, mocking Vergil’s reading material like he and Dante hadn’t fought over its very existence a few months ago. Lady either countered his remarks or added to them, joining the conversation like all was well in the world. It was a shield, they both knew it, but damn it felt good to pretend.

Then she was gone, too, taking a few books with her. Dante flopped back on the couch, leaving the empty pizza boxes on the counter. It’d been empty, before his arrival. Now it had the soup’s empty bowls, their plates, the boxes… Heh. Whatever. He could help Vergil clean once his bro was back.

Dante closed his eyes and tried to sleep, but he could almost hear his mother’s voice calling after Vergil, running outside to find him. It’d been fifteen years since he’d ran from the closet and started calling himself Tony Redgrave, fifteen years since he’d tried to ditch his connection to Sparda and hide. He’d thought Vergil was dead and made his way through the world learning whatever he needed to kill as many demons as he could. Said he wanted to protect humans, but half of it was retaliation, and half of it was just the thrill of battle. 

That’s who he was. Dante the drifter, the fool, the thrill-seeker. 

Better that than Dante the broken, scarred and listless, marked by grief. Better, too, than Vergil’s path, all bitterness and lust for power, compassion forgotten somewhere along the line.

Fuck, but that night fifteen years ago had shaped them hard. And now it was happening again. Mundus had returned, shattering the more tranquil rhythm of their lives, the incredible softness of the last year, and if the first time had twisted Vergil almost beyond recognition… what would be left of him now? 

Dante rubbed his face with his hands, like the movement alone could scrub the thoughts out of his mind. Pointless worrying, all of this. Nothing would happen because they’d find him right away, because Vergil had Nero and him to help him back, because they were a goddamn family, and he would destroy Mundus a thousand times over before he let the dude ruin them.

He rolled off the couch, raw energy coursing through him. Boy, he was itching for a fight. Or twelve. He'd been cooped up all day, and it was starting to kill him. His gaze went to the Rebellion, leaning against a wall near the entrance, then to the door to Vergil's bedroom.

It was his first night alone with Nero. He should stay, sleep with the kid, hover close in case anything's wrong. Who knew? Nero might have nightmares about today. Yet Dante couldn't get himself to crawl into bed just yet. He loved Nero, really, but it scared him shitless to think of what he'd have to do, if the kid woke up screaming. Dante was only good for playing. The kind of quiet mindfulness Nero needed now belonged to Vergil. Dante was gonna need to burn through some of his anger if he was ever gonna sleep.

With a mental apology to Nero (and Vergil, for leaving his kid alone), Dante stalked across the room, picked up the Rebellion, and strode into the night for some demons to kill.

** **

###

** **

When Vergil comes to, he lays in a large stone hand, gazing up at a gigantic stone statue with a face carved into the semblance of a god. It makes him think of Zeus, and he can’t help the amusement threading through his crushed lungs. He knows this is Mundus, can feel the weight of his power through every inch of his body, yet of all the things he’s expected of the Prince of Darkness, the likeness of a _ human _god is not one of them. The irony drags a smile out of him. This is the beginning of the end, he knows it, yet when Mundus rambles on about human weakness, about impurity and his heart being a tumor, a low laugh bubbles in from inside.

Once, Vergil knows, he would have believed it, everything about humanity and weakness. But for a year now, he’s held a tiny bundle of human love, cared for him, helped him grow. Nero _ is _weak, he needs protection, but nothing Mundus can say will ever make Vergil think he isn’t worthy of it. And somewhere, deep inside of him, he understands that if it’s true of his son, then perhaps it is of him, too.

So when Mundus finally stops blabbering and bears down on him, looking entirely too-human himself despite his proclaimed disdain of them, Vergil clings to that truth: he isn’t lesser for failing to defend himself, for winding up here, in Mundus’s grasp. Just like he wasn’t lesser for failing to defend his mother, fifteen years ago. He is Eva's son as much as he is Sparda's, and he will cling to his family's love for as long as a fragment of him remains. Excruciating pain invades his body and mind, and Vergil bears through it, sending his mind elsewhere, to quiet nights wrapped around Nero.

He doesn’t know--has no way to know--but somewhere in the human realm, his brother is slipping into his bed (fighting off the weirdness of it all). He throws an arm around the toddler tossing under the sheets, pulls him close and holds him firm, before making a promise he knows he cannot hold: that wherever he is, Vergil is all right, and they’ll see him soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has long since been a headcanon of mine that Griffon, who is supposedly one of Mundus's oldest general, was leading the demon hordes that killed Eva. :] This is the universe for it! To be clear, he is DMC1-sized here, but looks like the DMC5 Griffon.


	3. Identical Yet Irreplaceable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dante discovers to joys of 24/7 babysitting a toddler

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disaster Uncle is in the House :'

_ I thought the train would grant me the respite needed. It’s in movement, harder to track than when I hide in a deserted attic or try to rent a room. It’s been a week now, and if I’ve slept more than thirty minutes at a time since they first found me, I don’t remember. **_They have a new type of demon--a six-winged moth creature. It rubs its antenna over everything I touched; I’m sure it can smell me, track me. It’s never alone, either, and the two handlers on its back are devious, dangerous enemies. _**Or maybe exhaustion has made me sloppy. I have been on my own for seven years, and it has never been this bad. I need rest. I need to kill this tracking demon. I need to survive. _

Dante woke to a wet bed and a screaming toddler.

Nero was straddling his back, pounding on his shoulder and yelling about “cibo” (that was food, Dante knew that much), and from the wetness of the little guy’s pyjama pants, he’d had quite the leak. Bright sunlight half blinded him and he didn’t feel nearly as rested as he wished. Dante reached up and backward, grabbing Nero’s shoulder to stop him.

“All right, all right, I hear ya,” he muttered. “Good to know ya still got your voice, lil’ bud.”

That was about the only good thing he could think of. Didn’t help that Nero kept on screaming and pulling at his arm, like that would get him up any faster. Dante growled and turned his head, searching for the clock. **10:09**. Fuck. That was early. No, wait--for Nero that was late, wasn’t it? Ugh. Yeah, he was pretty sure Vergil had mentioned getting up early all the time. Cool, okay, time to roll out of bed and take care of his pee-soaked, starving nephew.

Dante hooked Nero under his arm as he sat up, drawing a surprised yelp out of him. The kid struggled in his grasp, rambling out in angry Italian (he better get back to English soon because this would be grow long quick), but Dante held firm, standing up and plucking him down on the dresser.

"Right-o, kiddo," he said, meeting red-streaked cheeks and puffy blue eyes. "Not a good mornin' I see. Let Zio Dante make it a bit better by, huh…" Priorities. Wet pants first. Breakfast later. Dante's stomach grumbled in protest at the decision. "Get you dressed? Where are you clothes at?"

He rummaged through the dresser and had time to open two drawers before Nero got tired of waiting. 

"Ho fame!" he yelled, and he started climbing down with a determined huff.

Dante caught him right away and sat him back. "C'mon, kid, give your confused uncle a chance."

Nero had, it seemed, no such intentions. Every time Dante stopped paying attention to him, he began his way down again. Finding a pair of shorts and some new underwear became a game of hit and run, with Dante shoving drawers open and close as quickly as he could before returning Nero to the top of the dresser. And when he finally had it all out and reached for Nero's wet pants to help him out of it, the kid just grabbed them and scrunched them into tiny fists with a resounding "No!"

"C'mon, buddy!" Dante exclaimed. "You peed all over yourself. Dontcha want clean pants?"

"No lo fatto!" 

"No lo what?" Ugh. He needed English, and fast. Dante ran a hand through his hair. Gotta stay calm. Nero was just a kid. Just a _ traumatized _ kid missing his dad. Which made two of them, seriously, 'cause Dante could already tell he was not meant for babysitting this much. He forced an easy smile to his lips (that part he was used to) and crouched down a little. "All right, Nero. We got a wrong start. Why dontcha tell me what you want, but in English. I ain't good with Italian."

He swallowed the 'like your old man' that came at the end of the sentence. He didn't want to mention Vergil. Nero was already hard enough to handle. The kid glared at him, and it took some time for the words to follow that death stare.

"I am not pee. I am hungry."

Dante couldn't help his giggle. It shouldn't be legal to be this cute. With a grin, he ruffled Nero's hair. "You're not pee all right. You're Nero. And you deserve clean pants."

He tapped them with raised eyebrows, and the anger washed away from Nero. The sadness that replaced it might actually have been worse, though.

"N-no…" Nero muttered. 

"No?" Nero didn't add anything, just kept his tiny fists wrapped tight in his pants. Dante sighed, met his eyes, and pried the fingers out of it, one by one. "_ I _want you to be dry, Nero. Don't you?"

Nero stared back at him wordlessly, and while he never said anything about what he wanted, he let Dante change him this time. It was clumsily done, Dante knew that, and he had to leave the kid hanging half naked because he figured halfway through he ought to wipe his bum a bit or something, but they got through. It was so obvious the kid wasn't saying a fraction of what was on his mind. Just like his dad, huh. Fuck, but Dante wasn't good at this shit. How was he supposed to get Nero to talk to him when he himself would rather move halfway across the country than share the painful memories burned into his heart? So he changed Nero, spouting inane comments about the weather or how cool his clothes were, leaving the dirty and wet ones on the floor, then announced that breakfast hour had arrived, slung him over his shoulder like a bag of potatos ("Spardatatos!" he exclaimed, but Nero didn't laugh), and brought him to the kitchens.

The play-doh was still spread on the table, so Dante got Nero in his chair, handed these to him, and prayed it'd hold his attention long enough for him to remember how this cooking thing worked. Except Nero flung them fast and far, all the way to the couch in the living room, then turned to Dante with a defiant stare.

Dante ignored the attitude and whistled at the kid. "Whew, Nero, that's quite the arm ya got there! We should get you into baseball or some shit!"

"B-baseball?" Nero asked, the surprise clearly cracking his angry act. He'd 100% expected a scolding (Vergil would've, 'cause he hated things being thrown around).

"Yeah! It's a sport. You throw a ball and others try and hit it with a stick. I'll show ya later. Cibo first?"

"Si! La colazione!" 

Nero threw his arms up and gave him his first real smile, and though he still had puffy eyes from crying, it lit up his expression and sent a wave of relief crashing through Dante. That's what he liked to see! And it was just one tiny smile, but maybe it meant he wasn't quite such a disaster, that yesterday hadn't broken Nero in ways he could never fix. Plus, that was totally a word of Italian he remembered from camping.

"Breakfast, right?" he asked, and Nero nodded. So he repeated it, even though he made it sound like he had a dozen potatoes in his mouth. "Colazione."

Nero's smile widened, so Dante turned to the fridge with renewed confidence. It'd taken him long enough to get the kid dressed, it was past 11 am now, so he figured they could eat whatever was on the menu for wednesday's lunch. Right? 'Cause Nero wouldn't be eating twice in an hour. Also he had no idea what else he'd make so. Dante rummaged through the prepared pots until he found one marked with the correct date. It looked like some white sauce with a bunch of veggies inside. Did Vergil eat that as is? They _ could_, but Dante had a feeling he was supposed to put it _ on _ something (plus there were two of these and Vergil was totally the type not to eat the same shit twice if he could help it).

"Zio?"

Nero's small voice startled Dante, and he bumped his head as he tried to exit. "Yeah kid?"

The smile was gone, replaced by a sheepishness Dante hadn't seen before. Nero wiped his nose. "Can you… can you do the apple?"

“The apple? Oh!” Memories of Vergil slicing through an apple midair with his summoned swords hovered at the edge of his mind. Dante had grinned like a fool, watching him use his precious powers to impress Nero like that. It’d sounded like a regular thing, too. Except he couldn’t do that shit, and shooting the apple with Ivory sounded like a bad plan even to him. “‘Fraid not, buddy. I only do regular cutting.”

Nero frowned and slammed a tiny fist on the table. “Do the apple, zio!”

Dante’s shoulders slumped. He didn’t know how the fuck Vergil came up with those swords! Dude had gotten a really strong hold on his demon powers ages before Dante (and who would’ve ever thought it’d bite him in the ass over some apple, rather than in the middle of battle?). Dante grabbed an apple out of the fruit bowl and played with it. “Look, Nero, stuff’s gonna be a lil’ different till your dad’s back, all right?”

“I want the apple!” Nero demanded. “Do the apple!”

Right. Kid didn’t accept excuses, apparently (like his father, damnit, just like his father--it wasn’t fair how everything Nero did reminded him of Vergil, of the hunt he should be on, of the ways this babysitting felt like failing his family and wasting time). Dante plastered a smile on his lips--what else was he gonna do, anyway? He found the knife rack, pulled out a fairly long one (didn’t bother checking the edge; this was Vergil’s house), and playfully threw it in the air. 

“All right, kiddo, we’re gonna do the apple--zio style.”

He had no idea what that’d mean, but he started juggling with the apple and knife, grinning at Nero in the hopes of drawing another smile out of the kid. He stared with wide eyes (good sign) and his frown had vanished (even better sign). When Dante swung the apple higher up and caught the knife in his other hand, Nero gasped (excellent sign!). With a flourish and a _ whoop_, Dante sliced the edge through the apple not once, but _ twice_, creating four perfect quarters and bending down to catch them before they hit the ground. He presented them to Nero with one quarter between each fingers, bowing with a proud “Tada!”

Nero _ giggled,_ bless his heart (what a golden sound it was). Dante set the apples down on the table and the kid snapped one up right away, obviously pleased by the offering. For a few seconds Dante just watched him eat, but then he realized the rest of the food wouldn't magically appear on the table. He still had no idea what that pot of sauce was supposed to be for. Maybe there was more in the pantry? Then his gaze latched on a list, stamped against the fridge door, with every single day of the week and the menu under it. Dante snatched it up with a gasp. There even was a list of corresponding groceries on the back. He couldn't help laugh at it. Lists lists lists. Vergil was always busting his ass about them as kids, and look at him now, still over organized, planning down to the tiniest detail (and freaking out when things didn't work out, no doubt). For once, Dante was thankful for it. It was gonna save him a dozen times over, for sure.

So. Today was pastas for lunch! Pastas were easy, right? He'd watched Vergil do those every week for a year! Pot, water, boil. Right? It'd be fine. _ Fine_. He checked that Nero wasn't fooling around too much, then searched for a big pot and set to work. It took him forever to find the actual pastas (Vergil put them in a fancy pot on the counter) and he was pretty damn sure he undercooked them because he was convinced he'd burn the whole house down. Somehow, he got two bowls ready with the warm shrimp and veggies sauce, set them down in front of them, and while the kitchen was dirty and he'd only remembered colanders were a thing after draining the noodles with the lid (they were still kinda wet, really), well, it was food. And he'd prepared it! Well, half of it (the simple half). He was still damn proud of himself as he settled in front of Nero.

"Homemade dinner from Dante!" he declared. "Ya got no idea how lucky you are, Nero. This is a once in a lifetime event."

Nero did not seem impressed. He stared at his bowl for a moment, then looked back up. "Is da' cooking tomorrow?"

Dante's stomach dropped. What was he supposed to say to that? "If we're lucky, kid. If we're lucky…"

They didn't say much after that, the two of them eating in silence, neither able to cope with the empty chair around the table. Dante had thought to squat Vergil's place until his brother's return, but he wasn't certain he could do that anymore. Everything here reminded him of Vergil, and he didn't know if he could endure that for too long. Maybe he outta empty the fridge and go home instead. He'd be better there. Would Nero, though? How was he supposed to know what was best for this kid? Dante stared at Nero, as if he could read the answer from his mind, but in the end, he knew it'd have to be his decision.

The whole day passed like this, Nero's mood swinging between childish giggles and brooding silences. He drew more than anything, and they brawled for a while, but as hours trickled by, Dante grew more and more restless. He could only entertain Nero for so long, damnit. What did Vergil even do all day with this kid? It didn't help that when he asked Nero if there was any game he wanted to play, the boy declared he wanted to find his dad.

Fuck, but he really wasn't equipped to deal with this. Dante left Nero to his drawings and picked up the phone, dialling Lady's number. It had barely rung once when she answered.

"Vergil? What the f--"

"It's Dante," he interrupted, trying to digest the intense hope under her anger.

"Oh. Fuck, Dante, don't do me in like that."

"I just called?" Why had she even expected Vergil to be the one? 

"People who live in this century have phones with caller ID."

"And ya had Vergil in there?"

"Of course. He's a business partner, after all."

Yeah. Sure. These two sure had mastered the art of redefining friendship as a business transaction. "Any news? Demons to kill?"

"Did you call just for that?" Lady snapped. "No, I don't, and you'd be the first to know if I did."

"I gotta be able to help somehow--"

"_Your _job has a name, he's four, and the last thing he needs is for his uncle to vanish on him too. Fuck your restlessness and sit your ass with Nero."

Dante pulled the receiver away from his ear and stared at it. He'd seen Lady angry plenty of time before, but she was spitting fire right now. Might have put a bullet in his head if they'd been in the same room. She was still talking, too, and he let her until he caught a "Are you even listening, asshole?", which was his signal to jump back in.

"Yeah, yeah, I gotcha." His eyes flicked to Nero, sitting at the table nearby, drawing yet another iteration of the spiky lump demon. "Look, there's food for a week in his fridge, so I'm crashing the place until we run out. It'll, huh, be good for the kid I think."

"The healthy diet?" she asked, mockery back into her voice.

"The stability. But that too." The best for him would be to have his dad back, of course. "Just hurry up, all right?"

"I am." 

There was no recrimination in her voice, just a statement of fact. He hadn't needed to tell her that. Lady had gone camping with them, witnessed the glory of Christmas in their family, and defeated Phantom with Vergil. She was his best friend--probably Vergil's, too, in a much different way--and she was already busting her ass for them. Still, it was good to hear it said aloud.

"Thanks, babe."

He hung up, and silence returned to the flat, broken only by the squeaking of Nero's marker on paper. Everywhere Dante looked, he found memories of moments with Vergil, like so many ghosts haunting the damn place. This… All of this? It was all fucking bullshit. And from the sound of it, it wasn't going away anytime soon. With a sigh, he closed his eyes and leaned back against the wall, willing the hours away.

###

The first week passed. 

Dante learned that Nero still needed nighttime diapers the hard way, when he leaked a second night in a row. At least it didn’t take him a third go to understand. The kid now had two moods: angry tantrums and gloomy silence. Dante only ever managed to make him smile for brief periods of time, but it vanished far too quickly. 

Nightmares plagued Nero’s nights, too. He kept startling awake but never screamed, his tiny body tense and shaking in the bed. He stayed quiet until Dante called to him, and on the fourth night, after a lot of coaxing, he told bits of it to Dante. Most involved demons surrounding him, but many had very specific elements--blue swords shattering in the dark, a feline’s roar, Vergil covered in red, reaching out as he faded away. Dante held him tight, throat raw as Nero’s tears wet his bare chest, his own recurring nightmares of Vergil falling into Hell all too present in his mind.

Every day, the flat got dirtier, the number of clean clothes diminished, and Nero’s behaviour worsened. Dante didn’t even understand how he managed to carry on, mindlessly trying to distract the kid, to keep both of their minds off this new reality. On the third day, Nero tore off several drawings Vergil had put on the lower walls, inscribing one William Blake quote or another on them, and he shoved them in the toilet. When Dante tried to salvage those, Nero only ran, selected new ones, and ripped them into tiny shreds. Physically stopping him triggered one of the longest bouts of screaming Dante had yet to witness (and hot damn, this kid had some lungs in him). 

Between Nero’s stubborn tantrums and the cleaning he purposefully neglected, it was becoming clear how Vergil had once become desperate enough to show up unannounced at the Devil May Cry, toddler in arms. The only bearable thing about this situation was that while he was panicking over his tiny nephew’s obvious heartbreak, Dante didn’t have time to dwell on his own. 

He called Lady every day despite her promise to let him know as soon as she had any information. She kept threatening to put a bullet in his head if he did again, but grudgingly gave him what updates she could. Mostly, it was confirming what they already knew: the two demons Nero had drawn belonged to Mundus--the spiky lump tended to adopt a panther’s form and was one of its most brutal foot soldiers, while the bird was one of its oldest generals. This was the most information Dante had ever had about who he needed to beat the shit out of before doing so, and he was still stuck in this flat watching over a grieving, traumatized toddler instead of fixing shit. 

Ugh. Talking to Lady only made him frustrated. After one such fruitless call, Dante flopped onto the couch and punched its back. It made him wish Nero wasn’t around, or that he could dump the kid on someone else’s lap, go off and tear the very fabric separating from his brother. Fuck but he wished he had that power. What wouldn’t give right now for the ability to make it all _ right _ again? To ruin the underworld, leave it a burning, shambling wasteland, thousands upon thousands of demons dead under his blade, paying for their master’s mistakes, for daring to touch his family? Dante hated this, hated being left behind to wait, helpless. He needed to fight--needed to _ win_\--needed the power to do so.

_ I… need… more… power. _

Vergil’s voice echoed in his mind like it was yesterday. For the first time in his life, he didn’t only see how his twin had wound up summoning the Temen-ni-gru, he felt the urge deep into his bones, felt it echo within every fiber of his body. Would he destroy the veil, if he thought it could save Vergil and repair his tiny family? Dante’s stomach squeezed. He knew that answer, had faced it when he’d chosen to stop Vergil, chosen to accept it might mean killing him. 

Power had a cost. Dante didn’t need more of it, he needed a way to Vergil, a path he could walk to reach him. He needed to take action--and he reminded himself he would, as soon as they knew how to. Until then, _ Nero _needed him. Dante rolled himself off the couch and snuck towards the bedroom. His nephew was sleeping soundly for once, curled up under the blankets for one of the last time. They were running out of food, and Dante couldn’t take this empty house anymore. Tomorrow, they were moving back to the Devil May Cry, to new routines and a new life, for however long they needed to find Vergil again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dante, your Vergil is showing there at the end. XD
> 
> Vergil's caretaking carreer started with Nero's shit (diarrhea) and Dante's starting with Nero's pee. Truly they are twins.


	4. And the Months Crawl By

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which life falls into a new rhythm, and autumn arrives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey, remember the fic in a chronicles format called "and the months slipped by" and I used ‘slip’ specifically because time flies when you’re happy? *casually echoes that title here, but with pain* Yeah, sorry about that. ;P

_ Waves upon waves of these arachnids came at me today. Easy killings, these lesser demons, almost not worth my energy. They provide great target practice, however. Summoned Swords have become a second nature, and the Yamato’s powers flows through me, slicing the world where I tell it. I remember fleeing these demons as a child. They’d seemed enormous--terrifying. In truth, they are small and pathetic, and now the Yamato is a good length for me. We are a match, a pair--companions--and demons crumble before us, returning to ashes. Still, recorded below is what I have learned as I exterminated this horde. _

** **

**July **

Moving Nero’s things to the _ Devil May Cry _would’ve been a messy, complicated business on any good day. Doing it while it downpoured and the kid threw a tantrum more epic than most demons Dante had fought in his life was a whole other type of Hell. Every time he tried to leave Nero alone for five minutes, the kid grabbed a box or bag and flung it to the ground, in the rain if he could. He scattered most of his clothes like this, and eventually managed to slip out of his octopus raincoat, leaving himself with exactly zero dry pants, socks, or shirts. After that, he stood in the living room, a puddle forming under his boots, screaming because he was drenched. 

Like they weren’t _ all _drenched.

Dante set down the last box, full of Nero’s toys, and surveyed his now even-more chaotic office. A pile brightly-coloured wet clothes was slowly soaking the couch, several boxes had been torn open and their contents half-spilled on the ground, and Nero had already managed to cover the top of Dante’s desk with night diapers. He worked fast, that kid. Being wet from head to toe hadn’t stopped him from creating (well, worsening, really) the chaos. Dante turned to the little bundle of trouble now screaming and pulling at his wet sleeves and offered a tight smirk. 

“Don’t like being wet, huh? Shoulda thought of that before you scattered all your dry clothes out in the rain, kiddo.”

“I wanna dry!” Nero yelled back, stomping his wet sneaker into the puddle. The squishy sound it made proved those had also become utterly drenched.

“Nothing dry left for you, my lil’ bud.” He should feel guiltier about it, but the last week had drained away a lot of his guilt over the results for Nero’s antics. Dante did his best (which was shit), Nero broke everything he could (for obvious reasons), and both of them lost more and more of the charming playfulness that had always been the core of their relationship.

Nero crossed his arms and scowled at him, his brow scrunching up in a manner so familiar Dante’s heart shrivelled. He wished the kid didn’t resemble his father so much sometimes.

“Naked,” Nero demanded.

“No one’s getting naked in this cold-ass shop,” Lady declared, kicking the door shut behind her with her boots and dropping the last of the boxes. Her jacket clung to her from all the rain. “Where’s the heating, Dante? We’ll freeze over at this rate.”

Heating? Oh shit, yeah. Cold had so little impact on him, he rarely remembered to turn it on. Nero wasn’t the same, though, and now that Lady had mentioned, Dante noticed the way his teeth clattered and his lips had gone blue. Gosh, to think this kid wanted to get naked, even though he was already freezing? Danted frowned. He didn’t like the idea Nero might be purposefully asking for something that would cause him discomfort. He hoped the kid just didn’t realize, but it reminded him of how obstinate about keeping the pyjamas he’d wet overnight Nero had been, too. 

“Right-o. Let’s get this place warmer than a volcano. Got a comfy sweater for you, too, Nero. Ya wanna wear your zio’s clothes?” He had bought the sweater on a whim, because it was the perfect shade of red, but he couldn’t remember if he’d even ever worn it. Price tag might even still be attached.

Dante scooped Nero up, ignoring the kid’s protest as he climbed up the stairs two by two. Lady said something about abandoning her with the mess, to which he only replied with thanks about cleaning everything, even though she’d offered no such things (she’d charge him for it if she was that unhappy anyway). He stopped briefly by the bathroom to grab a dry towel, then brought Nero to the extra room that was soon to be his. The kid had stopped trying to wriggle out halfway up and only stared in silence as Dante set him down.

“This is your new room,” Dante said. “S’not much, but we can decorate it together! Make it all cozy for ya.”

Right now, it was honestly a dusty dump. He’d cleared it out one evening while Lady watched over Nero, making calls to one contact or another while the kid slept, but this place was a long way from suitable for kids. Nero’s gaze went around it for a moment, then he turned fearful blue eyes back to Dante.

“M-my room?”

“Yeah. But you’re welcome to my bed anytime you like, all right? This is just… When you wanna be alone, you come here, and no one will bother you.”

“Zio…” He sniffed and pulled on his wet sleeves. “Da’... Da doesn’t have a room anymore?”

Way to rip his heart out and stomp on it, right there. Dante grabbed the towel, focusing on drying Nero’s hair while he searched for a response.

“Not yet, Nero, but when I find him… We’ll make him one, if he wants it. Don’t worry. There’s always room for your dad in my life.”

** **

**August**

The park in Dante's neighbourhood didn't have the cool plastic parkour options Vergil's had, and it was more used by teenagers late at night than by any children, but it _ did _have a baseball court, and Dante hadn't forgotten the mean throwing arm his nephew had. The first time the sun showed up again, he took Nero to the sports shop, bought a cool black glove, a ball, and a child-size bat, then brought him to the park. Nero had been moody most of the morning, but curiosity kept the tantrums at bay for a time (Dante had already learned to cherish those moments), and once they started throwing the ball, Nero's soft, genuine smiles returned. Nothing was quite worth hearing his nephew giggle and scream as he scurried after the ball, or yell as he flung it as hard as he could at Dante. They stayed all afternoon, Nero's bright laughter slowly soothing the empty ache that had become an integral part of Dante's life over the last two weeks, the game staving off their respective grief.

When they came home that night, Nero was utterly exhausted. He chomped down his dinner (poutine from the local francophone cantine), went upstairs and changed into his pyjamas (he barely needed any help now), promptly demanded his bedtime story (Dante had brought all his books but was already bored of them, himself), climbed into his adult-sized bed and snuggled under the multiple blankets Dante had given him. So far, Nero had wound up in Dante’s bed every single night, nestling against his zio to help fight off nightmares, and Dante expected the same to happen. When he woke up the next morning to an empty bed instead of the tiny ball of warmth he’d grown used to, he couldn’t help but be a tad disappointed, even if it meant Nero had finally had a good night. Dante’s own nightmares hadn’t budged, but he’d lived with them in one shape or another for so long, it was hardly worth noting anymore.

After that, they went out to play baseball every time they could, and the physical exertion helped Nero’s mood swings to some extent. Wasn’t that much unlike Dante and his demon-hunting thrill-seeking, really. Things like that, they kept your mind off the bad stuff--and that was apparently true for four-year-olds too. Dante _ wished _he was out hunting for Vergil still, but Nero’s temporary laughter when they played made it easier to wait (but not forget, never entirely).

The month passed without any significant headway, and one night as he and Lady emptied a bottle of whisky in the office, half-fighting over the next best step in their search, half trying to pretend it hadn’t already been too long, she reminded him that at this time of the year, twelve months ago, they had gone camping all together.

Two days later, Dante had packed everything they needed for a weekend in the forest. Vergil had wanted camping to become a yearly tradition, so they would all go, in his honour. Besides, Lady had obvious bruises under her eyes, and Dante suspected she needed a forced break from the research, before the lack of progress drove her mad. Or maybe that was just him. Weeks had gone by without any clue. Sometimes he couldn't sleep at all from the scenarios playing in his mind, and some days he could barely stay awake to watch over Nero. Camping… Camping would be painful, but maybe it'd help.

The sun was out when they got there, so Dante brought the kid back to the water. Nero splashed about and laughed and started kicking water right into his zio's face, and for a moment Dante managed to forget about Vergil and Mundus, and how this shard of happiness came with dangerous edges, and he'd feel their cuts sooner or later. He taught Nero how to keep himself afloat a little, and they worked on his swimming through most of the afternoon. When Nero whined that he had to pee, Dante laughed and promised him the river was as good a spot as any for his offering.

Dante had started hoping the site wouldn't hold too many memories for Nero by the time they lit the campfire, but his own came running. In the flickering light, he kept imagining Vergil sitting with them, could almost hear his slightly nasal voice as he recited his goddamn poems. These figments sliced through him hard, leaving his heart bleeding and his throat tight. It had been a perfect night, full of surprises and love, the kind Dante a wanted thousands of--the kind that had been stolen from them. He cracked a joke about inspecting the perimeter and stalked off, adding distance between the memories and him, part of him hoping he _ would _find a random demon to cut into pieces. 

When he came back, Nero was flinging marshmallows into the fire without even cooking them. Lady had moved next to him and set a hand on his shoulder, but she didn’t bother stopping him. She offered her flask to Dante without a word, and he downed the whole of it. That did earn him a scowl, but he didn’t care. He needed something--anything--to dull his senses and give him the strength to keep smiling for Nero.

They didn’t stay a second night. When morning came, Dante guided Nero to the cliffside, where Vergil had first marked his height. He picked up the Yamato, steeling himself as he wrapped his hands around the grip, blocking his overactive imagination from superimposing the slow, loving way Vergil always had of placing his fingers. It was only right, to use the Yamato for this. No other sword had the same edge and--the thought came, unwelcome, that one day, maybe sooner than he’d hoped, it would be Nero’s.

“Don’t move, my lil’ bud,” he said, as if he needed to. Nero had been worryingly calm and quiet all morning. “Time to see how big you’ve grown!”

Nero stared at him with big blue eyes, waiting. Dante sliced through the cliff in one powerful horizontal cut, then gestured for the kid to step forward. At least two inches separated the two lines in the cliff, and Nero’s eyes went wide.

“I’m tall!” he said, and the hint of excitement in his voice soothed some of Dante’s pain.

“And it’s only the beginning, big boy! One day you’ll be as tall as Zio Dante!” 

He sheathed the Yamato and picked the kid up, his smile more genuine than it had been for most of the recent weeks. Dante leaned his forehead against Nero’s and closed his eyes. Nero’s hands went to the crook of his neck and he squeezed, as if he could sense Dante needed the proximity.

One day, Vergil would see how tall and beautiful his boy had grown. This was temporary. Heart-rendingly painful, but temporary. He had to believe that.

**September**

Nero’s nightmares subsided halfway through September--to some extent, anyway. He still visited Dante at night sometimes, and on others, Dante peeked by his door and found him awake, but he seemed to sleep better more often than not, now. Less fatigue also meant less tantrums, to Dante’s great relief, and most of Nero’s crisis now happened around food--which, okay, Dante’s cooking skills hadn’t gotten any better, except for the mastering of shoving frozen meals into the oven. He ordered most of the time, but being stuck around Nero had forced him to take almost no contracts over the last month, and even he could tell it’d become a problem soon.

That didn’t stop him from buying a new book for Nero. Kid just loved to read, and Dante was utterly bored with those he’d brought from Vergil’s. Plus, he wanted a more challenging one! He didn’t know shit about books, so he had to ask the bookseller and she _ totally _rolled her eyes when he assured her Nero was very advanced for his age (not that he had any idea what kids read at four and a half), but she handed him something about a squid who’d tangled up his arms in a knot, and needed help undoing it. Nero still loved the sea, and he squealed with joy when he saw it.

In a way, Nero’s gradual shift into happier moods was a blessing. The kiddo smiled more, laughed at Dante’s weird voices when they read his new book, asked to go to the park more and more, and had started drawing things that did _ not _look like demons (mostly fishes, so Dante had bought sea-themed wall decals for his room, and now they added his drawings to the decor). Selfish as it was, Dante also hated how quickly Nero could move on. Didn’t he miss his dad more? No way in hell Dante’s approximation of parental care could replace Vergil. He tried, but it’d been months and he still forgot basic shit like helping him dress, or bringing emergency diapers out with them, or forcing him to actually go to bed at reasonable hours, or or--just… so much! He wasn’t cut out for this, and even now he spent an unhealthy amount of time wanting to leave Nero on his own and go out hunting for his bro. You could plop a kid in his arms, but it’d never remove the thrill-seeker in him.

Maybe that’s why when Lady and Morrison told him they had a job only he could take, he jumped on it. No hesitation, no second thoughts about leaving Nero behind for a night, or the risk to him. Just the excitement of killing demons into tiny pieces. Besides, Nero didn’t even cry when he left.

Lady thanked her stars the kid hadn’t cried. She feared this single night of babysitting more than she had any job in the past. Nero was a good kid, sure, but he’d been through a rough time and she had no idea how to handle tantrums. She had never wanted to deal with them, and that hadn’t changed after Vergil was gone. Dante’s broke ass needed to start working again, though, and Morrison had found himself a convenient excuse not to do babysitting (she didn’t blame him). 

At least it was a late-night job and she only needed to put him to bed. And Nero had been better recently, and he knew his own routine. Dante had promised the kiddo basically told him what to do, instead of the other way around. It’d be fine. Totally fine. Having Nero climb on her lap in the couch, holding his squid book didn’t make her nervous _ at all_. She cracked it open, and she’d barely read two lines before Nero huffed.

“Zio Dante makes funny voices.” He wasn’t whining, he was demanding. This little bugger sounded way too much like Vergil. She didn’t like it. 

“Oh yeah?” she asked. “Show me how.”

She pointed at the line where a big lobster man offered to use his pincers to cut the squid’s knotted arms, and Nero turned to her then puffed his chest out. 

“**Don’t worry, Young Paul, I know just the thing!**” His voice had turned far deeper, and he raised his hand, faking pincers with his hand and snapping at Lady’s nose. He giggled when she reflexively leaned back, and without even looking at the book, he added, “Paul ran, very afraid, and Louis the Lobster called after him, **‘Don’t run! There is no need to be scared!’**.”

Lady couldn’t help but laugh. Boy, but this kid knew the lines by heart. She could kinda hear Dante in his imitation, too, which just put icing on the cake. Nero’s smile turned into a full blown grin, illuminating his expression. His soft plump cheeks had flattened with time, and she could tell he’d only grow to look even more like his dad, but that sort of unabashed joy was entirely him--she could only recall Vergil grinning like that at Christmas, and only briefly. Nero’s cute face was more devastating than any demon’s claws, and she found herself smiling right back.

Then he surprised her by climbing down from her lap, and reenacting the entirety of the book, changing voices as Dante no doubt did, throwing his arms up or even throwing himself on the ground to imitate a sea slug once. This was _ definitely _not calming him before bed, but she cheered and followed along anyway, impressed by his memory. He finished with a big exclamation and stood in the middle of the chaotic office, expectant blue eyes turned to her. She clapped--she had to.

“You sure love this story. Do you know every line?”

Nero nodded. “Zio reads every night.”

Lady tilted her head to the side. Dramatic like his uncle, but with Vergil’s memory? She gestured for him to come back. “C’mere. I wanna ask you something.”

Nero hurried back into her lap, and his enthusiasm brought a strange, content warmth swirling in her chest. Lady opened the book at a random page and pointed to the words. “Do you know what this says?”

It took Nero less than a second to answer. “_I need help! I have a knot in my arms_.”

“And this word?” This time, she pointed to ‘need’. 

Nero half-turned, frowning up at her. “Word?”

Okay, so the kid couldn’t read. She would’ve been impressed, if he’d picked it up on his own. “Words are parts of a sentence.” He needed eagerly; he knew that much already. Lady brought his attention back to the letters. “What you see there? Those are the words. This is what we read when we tell you the story, and every symbol has a meaning.”

“Oh.”

It was a tiny sound, but even without seeing his face, Lady knew he’d suddenly grasped what a book really was, beyond the story. He touched the letters with his tiny fingers, then grabbed a page and flipped it, his head turning left and right as he browsed through the story. She let him, holding the book straight and waiting for him to let the knowledge sink in. A few seconds passed after he reached the end.

“I wanna read,” he declared, fierce determination in his voice. “Teach me!”

Oh, Hell no. Fear doused Lady’s enthusiasm at his discovery, but she bit back her initial reaction. When faced with her silence, Nero turned around to stare at her, his gaze completely unflinching.

“The Lady must teach me.”

_ Must_. As if she had any idea where to start. Besides, she spent the vast majority of her time hunting demons she thought might know of the underworld, or trying to dig info to help them get there from dusty books. She didn’t have time to teach him! It shouldn’t be her job. She was shit with kids. This… this should be Vergil’s. 

But he wasn’t there, was he? And fuck, she hated to admit it, but she missed him. Prissy, overbearing, stingy asshole who kept finding ways to surprise her, starting with his adorable little kid and how much he’d loved him. Still loved him. She couldn’t start thinking of Vergil as dead. He was alive, and she still owed him for saving her life.

So she’d find him, and in the meantime, maybe she could teach Nero a thing or two about reading. 

“All right, Nero. But you gotta be patient. Reading is hard.”

And his two teachers (she was absolutely roping Dante into this) were probably shit. But it didn’t matter. They’d show him, and one day he’d get to surprise his demon dad with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo, Lady got to narrate again :D !
> 
> I have a nice surprise! This chapter and the next two are meant to go together (they were meant to be one but I got very lengthy sooo), so I’ll be updating an extra time this week, on Thursday, and then again as usual next Sunday! Getting through that really rough angst a bit faster there ~


	5. One by One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holidays, minus Vergil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus update, as promised!
> 
> Specific warning for self-harm in this one.

_ I can’t feel my hands. I can feel them, though. Lurking. Demons of ice and claws. Storm rages outside. I was surprised. Sides and legs still hurt from the shards. I’ll heal, but they do, too, encased in ice. I wish I could make a fire. _ <strike> _ Like we used to have. _ </strike> _ I don’t like the cold. It _ <strike> _ sucks _ </strike> _ is a most unwelcome sensation. But I’ll deal with them first, then warm myself. _

**October **

Nero loved reading.

It shouldn't have surprised Dante. This was Vergil's kid, wasn't it, and his dad had been shoving books into his hand at every opportunity. Still, he hadn't expected that'd mean Nero would spend the month grabbing anything with letters on it and desperately try to sound out the words (either in chunks when they were big, or the entire thing in stories he knew), before yelling at his zio to help him, or confirm what he'd said, or explain the word itself. This got especially tricky when he nabbed the cereal box and demanded to know the meaning of mono-something glutamate or whatever other chemical shit was in there making it so good. It got annoying when Dante's half-assed answer wasn't enough, and he threw a tantrum over it.

The days when Nero dragged him out of bed before the sun came up and wound up screaming at the top of his lungs at ass-crack-of-dawn o'clock were those when Dante wondered why anyone would _ ever _ want a kid, and what he'd done to deserve this punishment. They were the days he got angry at Vergil for disappearing and leaving him with his mess, when he wanted to just up and vanish without a word because this fucked up world was just too much for him. It never lasted, and it always made him feel like shit.

He loved Nero. He really did. He’d give the kid the whole world if he could (would give him his actual dad back even more). It was this whole parenting thing he wasn’t any good at. Babysitting was best when it was a rare occurrence granting him extra time with his super cool nephew, not as a permanent status he’d never asked for. Especially not when he had to do it cause his bro was trapped somewhere in Hell with their pops’ archenemy instead of doing it because Vergil had needed some time off. 

All Dante wanted was their old life back. Him with the hunts and booze and pizza, Vergil with his perfect kiddo and countless lists and family dinners. Fuck. The two of them were barely in their twenties still, and they’d had that for barely a year before Mundus ruined it. He was just so fucking tired of it all.

Life, sadly, didn’t care about whether or not he was enjoying it. Days went on, and Dante kept acceding to Nero’s requests for random readings, kept doing his best to keep the kid happy while Lady and Morrison tracked down one lead or another (a potential portal here, a demon of knowledge there… nothing ever worked out, it seemed). Nero kept growing and growing, and it felt like Dante had to scrounge up money for new clothes every other week now. 

He was shopping for a new raincoat with the kid when they spotted their first set of Halloween costumes. Nero had cried for half of the morning because he didn’t want to change his octopus raincoat, so Dante ignored the pleas of his wallet and led him into the shop. Vergil had been too nervous to go trick or treating with the kid last year, but there was no way Dante missed out on that occasion--especially now that he’d seen the big smile on Nero’s face as he ran from one costume to another, screaming “Zio!!!” to get him to check them out. 

In the end, they found a glorious costume of an angler fish. It was a gigantic contraption of foam and cardboard extending in front and behind, with the front being almost entirely two rows of white jaws, each tooth the length of Nero’s forearm. In the black fabric that created the back of the mouth was three holes for Nero’s face and arms, and Dante could just imagine parents throwing their candies into the maw of the beast. The rest of the fish was behind Nero, black and cone-shaped with grey fins. To top it all off, a flexible pole reached out from the top, its tip hanging above the maw, ready to receive a lightbulb. It was _ perfect_, and Nero insisted to wear it several times before Halloween finally rolled around (at least Lady got plenty of opportunities to snag pictures of him. He asked about those, and she said she was gonna charge Vergil for every memento she’d take for him). 

The day was upon them when Dante realized he ought to have a costume of his own. He briefly considered getting his coat, sword, and guns out, but this struck him as too good an opportunity to stretch his wings (literally) and practice his devil trigger. He shifted as they got ready to go, and told Nero he was going in disguised as a demon.

“But you _ are _ a demon, zio!”

Dante laughed and hushed him. “It’s a secret Nero, we gotta keep pretending. Il Zio Diablo is just a costume tonight, all right?”

Nero grumbled, but he took Dante’s offered hand and didn’t protest further. They drove to a random and less-sleazy neighbourhood than the Devil May Cry’s, and for a time Dante managed to pretend no one was missing on this little outing, and Vergil just disliked Halloween and had stayed at home. 

Nero laughed as he scampered from one richly decorated house to another, often pulling on Dante’s wings to show him a particularly creepy spider or some cool light show. His angler lure bobbed in rhythm with his excitement, making him easy to track despite the numerous families strolling down the streets. Both of them kept receiving compliments on their disguises ("you and your son" hurt in ways he couldn't begin to describe), and more than one adult had startled at Dante’s changed voice before quipping about it with a nervous laugh. He just grinned at them, and Nero started exclaiming “Il Zio Diablo will get you!” every time anyone (kids and adults alike) pointed at Dante while gasping. The occasional scream (some playful, others much more real) he got from that only encouraged him. 

They came home way after sunset, and Nero barely managed to stay on his feet as he unloaded all the candies gathered. Dante helped him out of the unwieldy angler costume and promised Nero to sort through the candies before getting him into warm PJs. Good thing he’d never promised not to eat any, because their glorious haul was making him hungry, and sugar might just do something for the hole in his chest growing with every day of Vergil’s prolonged absence.

**November**

Snow came, and Dante blessed his stars that Nero's shark snowsuit still fit. Well, kinda fit. If one ignored the way his sleeves stopped at his wrists and all that. Wasn't like he could afford a whole new suit. He'd checked the price on them and fuck, but that had to be some sort of legal thievery. He'd just need to bundle up Nero a bit more. Between candies, the newly arrived snow, and his continuous quest to read every single word he could reach, Nero had ample opportunities to keep himself busy and amused. Dante continued casting longing looks at Rebellion on the wall.

Somewhere deep inside, he could feel himself slowly accept that this was it. Vergil was truly gone this time, somewhere in Hell, and they'd never find him. His pain had turned from burning urgency to a quiet, gaping hole that reopened when he caught his reflection in a mirror or when Nero frowned or scowled in that unique, prideful manner he shared with his father. Dante tried to cover the mirror, but the kid complained he couldn't brush his teeth anymore, and they got into a dumb fight over it (he didn't _ need _ to see to brush his teeth!). Eventually it became too much, and Dante cracked open the booze whenever Nero was asleep, hoping to numb himself.

He'd forgotten how much alcohol he actually needed for that to work, and how costly the damn thing was.

Dante was halfway through the latest whisky bottle when Lady strode through the front door, the small bag slung over her shoulders covered in snow. She dumped it on the ground unceremoniously, swept her gaze across the whole office and scowled.

“We talked about this Dante.”

Yeah, she’d been on his ass for drinking and being an irresponsible uncle and whatnot. But she didn’t have to take care of Nero all the time, to see Vergil in the kid or herself. She got to be out there doing something to find him and killing demons to vent it out. He groaned, set the bottle down, and straightened up with a smirk. 

“My pea-brain must’ve forgotten! Ya know me, Lady. Just a flunkie with no sense of responsibilities and all that.”

The gun was in her hand in a flash, and she huffed in frustration. “You’re lucky the little monster is--”

“Don’t call him that,” Dante snapped. He couldn’t bear to hear it. “Did you come just to scold me? Ya can’t just replace him, you know.”

Anger and hurt and sadness flashed through Lady’s expression, and Dante regretted the jab. He was unfair to her, he knew it, and fuck but he hated when he couldn’t get his bitterness under control. Dante rubbed a hand over his face and shook himself, as if he could physically make the shitty Dante go away.

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “I ain’t feeling it tonight.”

“You’re definitely lucky Nero’s sleeping because I don’t count the number of bullets I’d have put in your forehead for that,” she said. “I might’ve found a way. It’s dangerous and painful but--”

“Tell me.” He jumped to his feet, his heart hammering, the bottle of whisky forgotten. She had a way--a way to Vergil, to fixing this mess and reuniting his family.

Lady flipped open the bag and grabbed a scrunched up sheet from it. She smoothed it out while grumbling, then showed it to Dante. Some sort of arcane pentagram was drawn on it. A ritual? He glanced at her, and even she didn’t look particularly convinced. “Bought some arcane books on the black market. Most of it doesn’t look promising but this… Spill a bit of demon blood, draw on the ground, get a chance to step into Hell? Maybe. It’s a shit plan, Dante.”

“I don’t care.” He was already moving, fingers closing on the red coat draped across the couch. “Whose demon blood do I gotta spill?”

“Yours.”

"And here I thought I'd get to vent some frustrations by creating tiny demon ribbons to decorate our cool pentagram!" Though really, it might feel just as good to slice himself. Reckless demon hunts had provided plenty of wounds over the years, and he'd used to temporary pain to ground himself on particularly bad days. And this month had been nothing but bad days. "How are ya gonna keep it flowing? I haven't mastered the art of interrupting my healing yet."

Lady's gaze narrowed at his casual tone, as if she could tell he didn't care if he had to cut himself over and over to get enough blood. And she might. They'd grown a lot closer over the last few months, and she'd glimpsed the worst of him a few times now. Cracking jokes didn’t quite cut it as a front anymore.

“You remember the demon that poisoned you? Stopped your healing, left your legs burning--I had to fetch the antidote and all?” She dug into her backpack and retrieved a small vial. “This is the poison. Talked to the apothecary, and if you take just a little, it should slow the healing down. It’ll hurt, though.”

“Don’t care. You sure are prepared.”

“Just ‘cause it’s a fucked up and shit plan doesn’t mean we shouldn’t do the best of it.” She shoved everything in the pack again. “Let’s go draw in the snow. Who knows, Dante. Maybe miracles still exist.”

So they did. He drank the damn poison (and it did feel like half of his body had been set on fire again) and cut his wrist, and they did their best approximation of the circle with his blood. The snow reflected the moonlight almost as if it had its own shine, and every dark line traced on it felt like a step closer to Vergil. Dante’s skull buzzed, his hands regularly flitted to Ebony and Ivory, and by the time they finished, his heart had lodged itself firmly in his throat. They stepped back and stared at their handiwork.

Nothing happened. 

Dante could feel the difference in the air, the way power had gathered around their pentagram, prickling his skin and leaving a distinct smell of sulfur in the air. No portal opened, though. The night remained quiet, and the way to Vergil sealed. Dante’s wrist throbbed, and the cracks within him widened with every passing moment. This wasn’t fair. All he needed was one shit portal, one chance--Dante spun towards Lady and gestured at the circle.

“Why’s it not working?” His entire right arm shifted, skin turning to scales (how easy it was, to turn into a demon when his blood pounded and anger coursed through him!) and he set the claws against the still-open wound. “Do I gotta spill more?” 

“Fuck if I know, Dante,” she snapped. “I’m not a witch.”

He was at her side in a moment, grabbing her wrist tight. “Then _ find me a witch_.”

Alarm flashed through Lady’s eyes. Two _ bangs _pierced Dante’s ears, then pain blossomed in his side. He stumbled backward, but the thick snow threw his balance and he fell, one hand reaching for the two joint bleeding holes there. Dante hit the snow, still reeling from the shots, when Lady swore. 

“Fuck! I forgot we fucked your healing. Shit, shit.”

Amazing. She’d shot him thinking he would heal, and now he stared at the bright moon, red coat spread under him, laying in the snow in the middle of his failed demonic pentagram while she rummaged in her bag. He really fucking needed booze. And painkillers or whatever. Dante closed his eyes, a bitter chuckle escaping him. He grabbed a fistful of snow and shoved it into the wound, shaking with laughter, feeling himself grow more hysterical by the moment.

“This is all fucked,” he said, before letting his hand flop down again. “I miss him.”

Lady sat in the snow by his side, placing a small bottle in his hand. Antidote, probably. She was always prepared. His gaze moved from her bright red boots to her less-than-adequate winter clothes, to the wistful look she cast at the moon.

“Me too, Dante. Me too.”

**December**

They gave Christmas their best shot. Dante picked a pine from the forest and dragged it back to the Devil May Cry, and bought an entirely new set of decoration for it. He couldn’t bear to go back to Vergil’s flat to pick up last year’s lights and tinsel, and he didn’t want a blue-lit tree anyway. It was hard enough to light up the damn tree every day--only Nero’s smile made it worth the effort. 

Kid was doing ever better, and he’d thankfully forgotten all about Andrea Bocelli. He insisted on baking Christmas food, so Dante grabbed some of the premade snowmen cookies from the grocery store and they cut all of these up while Nero sat on the counter. He did shove a full spoon of uncooked batter in his mouth when he thought Nero wasn’t looking, only to get scolded very viciously. It was all Dante could do not to laugh at his seriousness.

“It’s just ‘cause you never tasted it yourself,” he said, and when Nero opened his mouth to protest, he shoved a second spoon of it directly inside. Nero started protesting, but Dante held his mouth. “Nuh-huh. Not polite to talk with your mouth full. Gotta swallow first.”

Nero did swallow, and his angry pout morphed into a surprised grin at the taste. He immediately reached for one of the uncooked snowmen on the tray, and Dante burst out laughing. He let the kid have it, and while Nero was licking his fingers, he put the rest of the cookies in the oven. They came out darker than they outta, and Dante quipped about dirty snow from the streets, which made Nero stick his tongue out in disgust. 

There was no toast raised to family this year, and the only gifts were Nero’s new toys: colouring books, and a whole-ass miniaquarium with tons of fishes, from bright ones to squids and ottaries. Nero’s unabashed squeal of happiness when he unwrapped it was the highlight of the evening. He played with it for the rest of the evening while Lady and Dante quietly exchanged the bottle of whisky, until they, too, perked up and found Nero’s wild aquarium stories amusing. Dante joined in, sitting on the floor next to him and granting his best nasal voice to the stingray supposedly eager to fight the tiny sharks in its basin.

Nero’s snowman-cookie sugar rush eventually came to a crashing end. Lady had long since fallen asleep on the couch, and the kid climbed right beside her, nestling in her arms. Dante watched them for a time, before making a quick trip upstairs. He returned for two things: a blanket for Lady and Nero, and Vergil’s box of love. 

Dante picked up a message at random--_“Jackpot”_\--and closed his eyes, thinking of the last time they’d shared that word. Their brief joint fight against Arkham would forever remain one of his best memories. They had worked seamlessly, an unstoppable force, and it had been so much _ fun. _ He set the small message aside and chose another, allowing himself this one night alone with Vergil, and his memories of him.


	6. Stretching Into Eternity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which time is relentless, but a solution presents itself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter of that trio! If you look at the titles of the last three, it makes "And Months Crawled By, One By One, Stretching Into Eternity". This also marks the series' 100,000th word!

_ After so long alone with my thoughts, the Yamato, and the shrieks of demons, the incessant prattling of this scholar threatens to drive me insane. The French have a word for this--élucubrations. Though I suppose that implies he is delusional, and nothing could be farther from the truth. I _ must _ endure. He holds knowledge of Sparda, of the power he sealed away, the power that should rightfully be mine. _ <strike> _ I wish he could tell me more of Father himself. _ </strike> _ With his help I can raise the Temen-ni-gru and claim it--and with Father’s strength, I will finally wipe out Mundus and free myself. _

** **

**January**

Dante’s funds and willpower ran out shortly into the new year. It had been six months since Vergil had vanished--six months in which he’d barely killed any demons, instead letting his own haunt him while he tried (and mostly failed) to take care of the kid. To be there, even in the dead of the night, in case Nero needed him.

No point in that if neither of them could afford the pizza, though. Pizza, and new clothes for Nero, and colouring books because he went through those at a lightning speed (always drawing, always quiet), and night diapers and whatever else (new needs always cropped up; kids cost a shitton of money). And Lady said they had to start looking into schools, and fuck that was just downright terrifying, and it’d be even more money.

So he’d gone back to hunting. Told Morrison to sling contracts his way. Went out almost every night, Rebellion on his back, Ebony & Ivory at his waist, and sometimes either Nevan or Cerberus with him to change things up. He never brought the Yamato. The katana stayed in his room at all times, and some nights when he returned covered in demon blood, he’d sit by it for a few moments, staring but not touching. Mostly, though, he could barely look at it anymore.

Most of the month had passed in a blur, and on one night of what was now routine for Dante, he crawled into his room to find Nero in _ his _bed, curled on top of the blankets, spread out in the middle of… ripped shreds of pizza boxes? Dante squinted in the dim moonlight, and his chest tightened as he confirmed his doubts. Worse than the boxes were the leftover slices that had been squashed all around the bed, purposefully spread out to cause maximum damage. A lot of the tomato sauce had gotten on the kid’s PJs, too, and it was easy to imagine the tantrum that had led to this.

Dante squeezed his eyes shut, fighting the waves of guilt and frustration. He didn’t want to clean this mess. He wanted to deal with Nero even less (he never knew what to say, how to be a good model for the poor kid). He didn’t want all these _ responsibilities_. But he was stuck with them, and Nero… Nero deserved to have his best, no matter how poor. So he tiptoed to the bed and gently shook the kid’s shoulder.

“Hey there, lil’ bud…”

Nero’s blue eyes fluttered opened. They were still puffy from crying. “Z-zio?” he muttered, voice pasty.

“Y-yeah, Nero.”

Wakefulness washed over the kid and he narrowed his eyes. “You left.”

The accusation pierced through Dante, leaving him cribbled with guilt. He forced himself to pick up Nero and hoped most of the blood on him had dried out. At least it kinda looked like tomato sauce. “I did. Just a bit of midnight work, nothing to worry about.”

“Zio. Don’t leave.”

Dante couldn’t promise that. The hunts emptied his mind, let him be at peace for an hour or two, and they kept water and electricity running. “Sorry, kiddo. Let’s get you out of these clothes. Ya smell so good right now, I might be tempted to have a midnight snack!”

His cheer was forced, but when he faked biting Nero’s shoulder, the kid burst out in sleepy giggles. Dante smiled back at him, and they left his messy room behind (he’d clean up tomorrow). He got Nero in new PJs, threw his own clothes to the ground, and slipped in bed behind the kid. It’d been a long while since Nero had joined him because of some nightmares (probably what had woken him this time, really), and Dante kinda missed the warmth of his small body. It helped, this little bundle of love. 

“Nero…” he said, half-convinced the kid was already asleep. “Just hang on, right? We’ll figure it out.”

He didn’t know how, though, and found himself wishing for a gigantic tower to show him the path again, knowing he’d never be so lucky. Dante threw his arm over Nero, bringing him closer, and let the softness of white hair on his chest reassure him, however pointlessly, that they would be all right.

** **

**February**

“What the fuck, Dante?”

Lady’s sharp exclamation and the pressure of a boot on his elbow woke Dante from his mid-afternoon nap in the living room. He grabbed her ankle with a mumbled “whaddyawant”, intent on rolling over without ever listening to the answer. Then he heard Nero’s worried “Is Zio sick?” and his eyes snapped open. Fuck, Nero had been napping, and then… 

“Nah, your zio’s just confused about who nap time is for.” Lady’s boots pressed harder on him. “Ya gonna wake up or do I dump some water bucket on your head again?”

Once, she’d have just shot him awake. No such games with Nero around, though, so she’d resorted to other (equally disagreeable) ways. Dante didn’t relish that thought, so he pushed her boot away and propped himself up.

“Sorry ‘bout that. Was just a lil’ jealous of Nero and all his cool naps.” 

Nero had climbed onto the couch as soon as he’d started moving, and now he pouted at him. “Naps are _ boring_. I wanna go play outside! You promised.”

Right. He had. Only way to convince this stubborn lil’ bud to get some sleep. Not that Dante had been particularly diligent about naps and shit. How many times had Vergil battered his ears with talk of kids and routines? But heh. Routines just weren’t his strong suit, and he’d gladly take the lecture whenever (if) Vergil returned.

"Get your things, kiddo, and I'll be right on with ya. Just gotta grab a shirt." He gestured towards three plastic boxes he'd stacked near the door, their opening facing the front, and in which they shoved Nero's winter clothes (boots at the bottom, suit in the middle, everything else up top). Nero replied with that too-familiar pouty-scowl, but Dante ignored him in favour of Lady (and Nero stomped off, as usual). "I'm busy, as ya can see. What's up?"

She glowered at him. "You think I got nothing better to do than visit your stinkhole?"

Dante kipped up, running a lazy hand through his hair and letting loose a long, satisfying yawn. He was being an asshole, he knew it, but every time Lady came these days, they wound up fighting. Maybe he wouldn't be in such a shit mood all the time if she stopped coming (that was a lie, he knew it, and she kept his ass and kitchen afloat, but he'd rather not think of that now).

"Seems to me ya always come back anyway." The gun was at his forehead in a split second, then they both glanced Nero's way. Kid was too intent on pulling out his shark suit to pay them any attention. Dante met Lady's mismatched eyes and pushed her gun down. "If it ain't about Vergil, I don't wanna hear it today."

Lately she'd been busting his balls about school for Nero and fake paperwork (had even gotten Morrison on his case about that one) and how the kiddo’s birthday was in a month and they should do something. And he hated it, because that meant time was flowing, months passing without Vergil to see his kid grow, and he couldn’t stop it, couldn’t do shit about it. He didn’t want Nero to turn five without Vergil, or to have his first day of school, or anything else! Time wasn’t going to stop for his sorry ass, but he sure wished it would.

“You _never _want to hear about it,” Lady pointed out, crossing her arms, “and it is about Vergil.”

Dante froze, heart and stomach twisting painfully, the hope burning through him. He cracked a grin and spread his arms. “Shoulda started there, Lady.”

“Fuck that.” She shoved him hard, and he let himself fall into the couch, half from surprise and half because he couldn’t be bothered to stay up. “You’re an asshole, Dante. I spent the last months running around trying to keep your brother’s life from falling into pieces before we got him back. Ya got any idea the sort of paperwork fuckery I’ve had to pull with Morrison? The boots I had to lick and the bankers I had to pay instead of shoot?”

“I don’t care--”

“And the other half of my time is demon interrogation, dusty book readings, dubious meetings with shady warlocks and the grimiest specimen of the underworld, _ just in case _ any of this bullshit had a single clue--anything!” She shoved her hand into her sack, and to Dante’s surprise, she didn’t come up with any sort of gun. Nope. Just an old, shitty book. He groaned and tried to get up and escape, but she set her boot on his chest. “I’m not done.”

“Zio?” Worry threaded Nero’s tiny voice. He stared at them both, holding the shark suit. Whether Lady was done or not, she stopped for him. “Sharkie is wet.”

Dante’s eyebrows shot up. “I guess the Lady’ll have to be quick and to the point, so I can heat that up for ya! Give it.” He gestured for the snowsuit and smirked at Lady. Her rage burned hot enough, it might have dried the suit all on its own! 

“I went to _ his _house.” 

She hadn’t removed her boot, and something in the tightness of her voice caught his attention. Dante looked at her again--looked at her for real this time--and noticed the bags under her eyes, the forced pride in her straight back. How her indignation was just as fake as his nonchalance. His fingers closed around the wet snowsuit, but he didn’t move, only set his hand on Nero’s shoulder to signal for him to wait.

“Vergil’s notes, the ones he gave me for Christmas... They mentioned him a lot, at the end. Talked about all he knew. So I thought maybe… I blew a whole wall off at our home and found his secret Sparda cache. So much shit in there.” She trailed off, removed her boot, and dropped her book on his chest instead. Her hands tightened into fists. “Do you know what legends say about the Yamato?”

“That it can cut anything?” Dante answered, not sure where she was going with this. His free hand picked up to the book but he didn’t bother opening it.

Her smile was bitter, almost incredulous. “Anything. Even the veil between the human and demon world.”

“What?”

Dante's head rung as he jumped to his feet. She couldn’t mean that. The Yamato was a fancy ass sword, sure, and Vergil knew how to make the most of it, but to just slice up entire portals with it? Fuck, but that was a lot of power. No way his bro had known (he might not have bothered with their dad’s big tower if he had). To think all this time, if he’d just--no, none of that. He knew now. He just had to grab the katana, poke a hole through that veil, and--

“_Ziiooo_.” Nero’s plaintive whine interrupted his thoughts. “You’re hurting me.”

Dante belatedly realized he’d clenched the poor kid’s shoulder hard. He yanked his hand back, barely biting down a curse. “Sorry kiddo!” Shit, but his breath was coming in short, and his mind felt like it’d split in about four different directions at once. “Right. Wet snowsuit first, Yamato second. You need your zio diablo, dontcha?”

Nero nodded, lips tight and big eyes full of water, tiny fingers clenched into his shark suit. Guilt crushed most of Dante’s buzzing excitement. He really needed to do better by this poor kid--by everyone, really. He reached within, allowing the burning power of his devil trigger to flow through him. Nero _ loved _this form (especially in winter when he cuddled against his warm chest) and kept demanding it, and over the course of the last months, it’d grown easier to change into it without growing restless, and to hold it longer. Dante pried the shark suit from Nero’s hands and tied its sleeves around his neck, letting it hang over the warm core of his demon form.

“Here ya go, buddy.” He picked up the kid and set him on the couch, crouching in front of him. Nero immediately reached for the tiny spikes along his jaw, gripping them. Could never stop himself from touching, but Dante rather liked the contact. “Wanna read your book while it dries? I bet you can’t finish the story before the suit’s all warm and ready for ya!”

“I can!” Nero protested immediately, and Dante couldn’t help his grin. Nothing like appealing to the kiddo’s competitive streak.

“Show Lady how good you are, then,” he said, straightening up. 

Not that Lady didn’t know (she did most of the work teaching him) but this way he could escape and try to use the Yamato. The very obvious ploy earned him a hard stare, but she still swiped the book from its place on Dante’s desk and flung herself onto the couch next to Nero. Dante offered a thumbs up as thanks, then he was gone, wings flaring as he leaped up to the second floor’s balcony.

He heard the beginning of Nero’s recital (“Once there was a squid…”) as his clawed hands closed over the Yamato’s grip. The power to slice through anything, even the veil between the human and demon world, huh. But _ how_? He gave the katana a quick spin, trying to focus on the feel of its edge through air, on the cold and familiar power flowing through it. Dante had picked up and mastered plenty of Devil Arms while climbing the Temen-ni-gru, and it’d always came so naturally. This… didn’t. 

Then again, he might’ve beaten Vergil, but his twin had never submitted to him, not the way the other demons had. Heck, he’d tried to fling himself into Hell instead of that, so maybe the Yamato knew? (Did it think? Dante always felt like Rebellion knew him, and Vergil had built so much of himself ‘round the katana and dad).

“C’mon, girl,” he muttered, “if ya know him, ya know he’d like to be back here.”

He tried a few more swipes, but no luck. With every new cut, the shark snowsuit against his chest went _ schwip schwip _ from fiction, reminding him of the cute lil’ bud he’d dumped on Lady, and who was oh-so-eager to go out and play with his zio. Thing had already gone dry now. Dante perked his ears up and smiled at the sound of Nero’s voice slowly enunciating words (but those were definitely the last pages of the story. Damn but kiddies’ books were short). Uncle Duties would be calling to him soon. His chest tight, he released his devil form and set the Yamato back down, his fingers trailing along the blade.

“You and I will cozy up in no time, just you wait,” he told the katana.

He had a goal now. No way he’d just flop down on the couch for long naps when he could be trying to unlock the Yamato’s powers and finally get his brother back.

** **

**March**

The only thing more frustrating than having no fucking clue how to reach Vergil was knowing the way and being unable to unlock it. Dante had managed to shed some of his shit habits of the last month (less booze, less naps, less being an ass, more Nero-lovin’, and more nightly Yamato sessions instead of wild, pointless hunts), but he still had no clue how the heck he was supposed to slice the veil between the human and demon world or whatever. Could totally do one of those mean judgement cuts now, though! Not precise enough to do some new morning apple trick for Nero (he'd started those again, too) but still powerful. It was just a matter of time before he figured out the rest, he was sure of it, and it gave him something to do at last.

Yamato training became his point of focus, his motivator. He dragged himself out of bed at reasonable hours instead of letting the kid munch on dry cereals in the morning, he browsed through the school pamphlets Lady had dumped on him, and he even cleaned (somewhat--he had limits) the Devil May Cry's main room again. Still refused to sign anything that named him Nero's legal guardian, and the cold sharp rebuttal he'd given Morrison at the (pragmatic but unacceptable) idea made the dude avoid him for a week.

He was forging the demon dad's signature on one pile of paperwork or another when he asked Lady for the date, and noticed Nero's birthday was coming up. They set aside boring paperwork shit and found him a cool pufferfish cake (the icing made tiny spikes), and Dante figured, since the kid had gotten more rowdy over the year (probably his fault), he ought to get him stuff to help burn that energy--a tiny trampoline for the inside and a bike for the outside (he'd have to eat peas instead of pizzas for a week for those but whatever, he'd been a bad zio over the last months and Nero deserved it).

The bike, of course, was for summer (summer, and Vergil's return). The typical late-spring snowstorm chose Nero's birthday to come, and any plans to play outside in the snow had to be discarded. It sucked big times, but Dante gave him the trampoline earlier, and Nero's Big Disappointment was immediately forgotten. He jumped and screamed all day, sometimes leaping towards Dante to be caught. Once, Lady yelled “tickle him!” and Dante gladly complied.

He let himself fall to the ground with Nero, fingers deftly squeezing the lil’ bud’s side as the scrawny kid squirmed under his hands. Dante had made Nero laughed plenty of times over the last few months, but it had been ages since he’d gone all out on him, playing until Nero’s bubbling giggles turned into full-out screams--until his breath ran out and turned into hiccups, and his voice filled with sunshine as he pleaded with a familiar and beloved _ “noo, zio, per favooore”_. Dante kissed his forehead and temple and neck before he stopped, pulling Nero close to him as he sat, his chest so full of love it was almost as painful as the crawling despair of the last few months. He rested his chin on the kid’s head, breathing in deep.

“Wish I could give you the world for your birthday, kiddo,” he said (and by the world, he meant his dad).

Nero stayed silent, but the small fingers wrapped around Dante’s forearm squeezed in answer. A low rumble filled the silence--like thunder, actually, but Dante figured it was probably some snow pile avalanching or a roof givin’ in. They’d had a shitton of snow this winter, and it wouldn’t be the first unfortunate house to lose its hat. 

“Back to the trampoline?” he asked Nero, and the enthusiastic nod he received was all he needed.

They played for the remainder of the afternoon, eventually switching from relentless jumping to aquarium storytelling. Dante contributed to Nero’s intricate plot with a wide variety of fart jokes, which made Lady roll her eyes but never failed to draw loud exclamations of laughter from his nephew. Vergil would return to his kid knowing a hundred different takes on ‘farts in water make bubbles’ (and his inevitable dismay and scolding would mean all was right in the world once more).

Nero got to pick his pizza toppings in honour of it being his birthday and all, which meant Dante had to endure the ignominy of olives and pineapples on his pizza (at the same time, no less!). He kept all of his complaints inside, instead making faces with every bite, earning himself Lady’s brutal teasing. Pizza was pizza, though, which meant it was _ always _good. He stuck his tongue out at Lady and left to get the cake.

The weird thunder thing was still happening, and Dante was starting to wonder what kind of crazy shit the city was up to while the snowstorm raged when he caught a flash of lightning through the kitchen’s window. Snowstorm _ and _ thunderstorm? When had _ that _ever happened? Strange weather gave him the heebie jeebies, but he plastered a grin on and brought the cake, focusing on Nero’s happy squeal when he spotted the pufferfish (“master of the inside farts”, Dante had called it earlier). 

He had just struck a match when another lightning struck (closer, way closer), and this time he felt the demonic power to go with it. Dante’s head snapped up, and while he brought the flame to the candles, he gestured at Lady and touched his hip. She got the message, her hand reaching for the faithful gun at her side. 

Dante had just lit the last candle when lightning flashed and the door burst open, gusts of wind and snow rushing into the Devil May Cry with their new visitor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You probably can tell by that cliffhanger, but next week we're moving into something different!! I'M EXCITED.


	7. Where the Heart Lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a demon seeks to find herself in a man losing himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who wants news from Vergil? :']

Vergil is dying. 

That’s the only explanation for the woman before him, golden hair and beautiful green eyes, her dress simple and elegant. Eva is here. After all these years, she has come to get him, to protect him. She’s here for him, and all he can think is that perhaps she loved him after all--perhaps she still does, despite his attempt to join human and demon world. She stares at him, and no smile lits her face, and the hope he might not have shattered her love vanishes. Vergil chokes on a sob. He wants to apologize, to beg for her forgiveness, and yet… and yet she left him behind, and he finds his pride blocking out the words, leaving only one behind, wrapped in love and bitterness alike.

“Mother…”

She frowns. “Did you lose it already?”

Hasn’t he lost everything? Vergil tries to understand what she could mean, why she’s staying so far away. If she’s fantasy conjured by his mind to evade the pain, shouldn’t she be warmer? He remembers her smiling so much more…

“I’m not your mother,” she adds.

It doesn’t matter, that she’s not real. He knows this is his mind clinging to fractions of himself, but Vergil needs this, needs to keep her alive. This is the only chance he’ll have to tell her.

“I’m sorry. So sorry. I couldn’t protect you. I should have--” He doesn’t know what he should have done, stops himself abruptly. He had been a child.

“Gosh, you humans really do break easily.”

That’s--Eva wouldn’t say this. It’s wrong. She always used to say… what did she say again? Vergil squeezes his eyes shut, grasping at his failing memories, bleeding out of his mind like paintings melting. It’s something about humanity’s resilience. _ Humans don’t give up. That is their saving grace. _

“I didn’t. I can’t break,” he replies, latching onto those words. “I need to escape--to go home.”

This knowledge is a diamond, embedded deep within him. His son is home, waiting for him. He cannot break, needs to find a way out. It seems ludicrous--the very ground is spiked through his body--but that won’t stop him from trying.

“There is no escaping Mundus,” she tells him, this Eva lookalike, this strange woman who might be more real than he’d first thought. Vergil pays renewed attention to her, how she stinks of Mundus, of his power. “Why bother trying?”

How could he not? He had promised Nero he wouldn’t do this--wouldn’t vanish as Sparda had--and here he is. Gone even earlier than his father had been. The failure burns harder than any pain inflicted by Mundus. His body is a shell. It can heal. His son, however… Nero needs him. Giving up has never been in his nature, but it simply isn’t an option now. He doesn’t think she would understand, though. Whatever she is, she has no idea what family means.

“I am a Son of Sparda,” he says, voice hardening from pride. “I have… only one equal.”

She smirks, long strides carrying her closer. She moves wrong, too, and he cannot believe he hadn’t noticed. Every step is predatory, resonates through her entire body. She moves like a demon, with nothing of their mother’s kindness. How foolish, to have ever mistaken one for the other. Her fingers are cold on his chin as she lifts it. It hurts, how green her eyes are, how they make his stomach churn with memories even when he knows it’s all a lie.

“What I hear is ‘only one, but not Mundus’. Am I right?” 

Vergil scoffs. He’s not sure where he finds the energy for such disdain, but he uses it as an armour. “Never him.”

He wonders if Dante knows what happened, if he has Nero with him, if they’re all safe. He hasn’t seen or heard any of them here, but of course that means nothing. As long as it’s just him, though, Vergil knows he can hold on. 

“Funny how you wound up here anyway, isn’t it?” 

She tsks and lets him go. Vergil’s chin doesn’t droop. He glares back at her, forcing his posture as rigid as he can--not much, at this point, truly. It doesn’t matter. It’s an act, a defiance in which he can ground himself, prove that he’s not done yet, not broken. His body can heal itself, but morale is another matter. He needs to cultivate his.

“Why are you here?”

He manages to make it sound demanding, and that makes him smile. Small victories. She flicks her hair, unimpressed.

“I was created as tailored bait for the sons of Sparda. So I was curious… I wondered what made you so special.” She tilts her head to the side and as a thoughtful expression replaces her mocking smile, Vergil can’t help but soften. It’s ridiculous how strongly it works, how the impulse to be kind is amplified the moment she looks more like his mother. He tries to push it back down, but that’s wasted energy, and he has none to spare. 

“Satisfied yet?”

She laughs, and that, too, is very different. She’s only like Eva in appearance, and he needs to remember that. “You’re certainly more fun to be around that Mundus.”

What a strange thing to say. _ Fun _is never really one of his goals, nor is it what people think of him as. It’s difficult not to be more fun than Mundus, however. What a low bar to clear. Vergil can’t help his snort, nor the words that follow. “True. I’m an endless font of poetry games.”

Vergil regrets the admission as memories of a first camping trip flood back, of the single drink that had almost put him out of commission, of Dante and Lady prodding him until he offered examples. He could be foolish, with them, could string words into a shambling poem without shame.

She sets a hand on her hip and cocks it. “Poetry, is it?” The way she says the word, she’s tasting it, wondering at it. And then she’s gone, walking out on him without a word. 

** **

###

** **

What a strange man. She stares at the dozen slim poetry collections around her, stolen from the human world, and wonders how one could possibly find infinite games within them. Maybe it’s in how the words taste when she speaks them, but so many of these have awful mixes… She wonders if it’s a human thing, if something in her is too demonic (too heartless?) to grasp it. But she doesn’t think she’s heartless. Certainly, she doesn’t mewl like most pathetic humans, but neither does Vergil, and it feels like he has ample reasons to. Still. Tears aren’t everything. 

Most of her life so far has been incredibly boring or downright frustrating. She follows Mundus’s commands, endures his babbling generals, and wonders about herself. She’s bait. A creation honed for a single goal. She thought talking with this Vergil would give her answers, help explain why she needed to exist at all, but instead she wound up with all these confusing, metaphorical words. She knows they’re images, stand-ins for deeper themes, but it still feels obscure to her, and it doesn’t take long before she loses interest in trying to decrypt it--especially not when she has someone who can explain.

He’s not awake when she gets to him. That’s not rare anymore. Sometimes she finds him in his demon form, his body mending itself while he sleeps, his breath ragged from one hole or another in his lungs. Most days he looks completely human, scars he no longer can heal dripping blood, blue veins increasingly visible through his skin. That’s what he’s like today, though his leg is at a weird angle. He’s been here a short while now, and she’s surprised Mundus hasn’t grown bored with him. Another thing that marks him as special, like the twin she’s supposed to lure. He won’t break or submit like others, and Mundus hasn’t outright killed him for it.

She isn’t certain how long she stares at him. Time… time is a slippery concept, here in the demon world, where light shifts according to whims few understand. She does a lot of this when she knows he won’t notice. Is _ that _weird, that she’d rather not let him know he intrigues her? She’s just bored, and he’s without a doubt the most interesting thing around. Even the fluctuations in his healing powers and physical form are more distracting than watching Mundus overwhelm or torture yet another underling. She got the messages he wanted her to learn from that long ago, anyway.

He exhales, long and slow, like he needs the strength of his entire body just to get breaths in and out. Her hands tighten around the slim books and she resists the urge to shake him up. It’s pointless, his fight with Mundus, but that doesn’t mean she should purposefully break his much needed rest. In a way, she’s rooting for him, even if he’s just prolonging how long he suffers. It’s a selfish sort of cheering, though; once Vergil is gone, so will her distraction be. So will the only other person looking remotely like her be, too (and what a foolish thought this is, when she knows _ why _they look similar, knows it means nothing about what’s inside).

“Nero…”

There it is again. The word has a sharp spiciness to it, mixed with hints of sweetness. She thinks it’s a name. He keeps whispering it, when he hovers like this at the edge of consciousness. Part of her wants to ask about it, but she doesn’t think he’ll say, so instead she decides to wake him more fully and opens her book to a random page, to read the poem's title. 

“_Innocentia Veritas Viat Fides Circumdederunt me inimici mei_. Isn’t Latin pretentious by human standards?”

He startles and lifts his head at her voice, but it takes a moment for the icy blue eyes to properly focus on her. “Wyatt,” he says, with the hint of a smile. It’s not a bitter smile, for once, and it’s impressive how it softens his gaunt face. “The man put his name in the title. Make of that what you will.”

Her laugh bubbles on its own. It’s always such a surprise to her ears. So little makes her laugh, around here, yet she doesn’t feel like a particularly serious person. Wyatt’s name is bitter, the sort she’d rather avoid. “What does it mean, the title?”

“My enemies surround my soul.” The answer comes quick, on a raw and raspy voice. He tilts his head to the side and adds. “The first part is… Innocence. Truth. Faith. The three written in a triangle around ‘Viat’--his name.”

He’s right, that’s exactly how they are in her book. Isn’t he wasting memory space on these useless things? She knows Mundus is trying to erase him, break his sense of self, turn him into an underling. He should focus on what matters, no? Though she wonders what does--what really goes into _ being someone_. “He must be a demon, if he thinks those are his enemies.”

He chokes, and she thinks that might have been a laugh if it hadn’t been for the pain. His gaze sweeps her up and down. She’s changed clothes, has gone for a leather top and pants she’s certain his mother would never wear. It’s a statement. Makes her feel good, makes her feel unique and different. Eventually, his eyes stop on her small pile of books.

“Why?”

“You implied it was amusing and I was bored.” She flicks her hair and tries to stay nonchalant as she snaps one book close, lets it drop to the slick ground at her feet, and randomly opens another, flipping through the pages. “I must say, I found a few interesting ones, but overall… I’m disappointed.”

She thinks she catches an open eagerness in his expression when she speaks of interesting poems, but it’s gone as quickly as it came, and he closes down into the usual scowl. It’s her face that triggers the interest, she knows, and it irks her that he can’t help this fondness. It must irk him, too, because there’s acid in his tone when he speaks again.

“This is foul,” he says. His shoulders straighten and he tilts his head back, glaring through his bangs. His hair has grown a fair bit since his arrival, and she doesn’t think he controls it like she does. “Does Mundus really expect this to work? I’m not so easily swayed.”

She rolls her eyes and sets a hand on her hip. “You’re doomed. Mundus doesn’t need cheap tricks to get to you. It’ll happen sooner or later. This?” She shakes the book in her hand--some Beaudelaire guy or something. “This is all me. I can make my own decisions, you know.”

She thinks she can, anyway. A part of her wonders if this isn’t also a part of why she was created, if Vergil isn’t right, after a fashion, and Mundus is playing a sick game on all of them. Maybe this is why he lets her come here. Surely he knows she does so.

“You’re lucky, then,” he says, and the cracks of his skin have made it into his voice. “I no longer have the energy to be bored.”

He slumps back, allowing the gnarly chains of stone to hold him upright instead of expanding pointless energy on the act. His eyes close, and she thinks he’s about to slip away again. A twinge of disappointment courses through her. He still hasn’t explained why he likes these.

“Do you…” His voice is a whisper, half-caught in his throat here. “Do you have William Blake with you?”

She quickly checks her spines and grins when she spots the name. “Sure do.”

A shiver runs through his body. “Read it. Slowly. You have to let the music of it carry you; the rhythm of the words, their melody.”

She’s not sure if he means now or in general, but there’s an irresistible urgency to his voice, so she sets the other books down and flips through this one, this _ Songs of Innocence and of Experience_, until a title catches her eyes. _ The Sick Rose_. She says it aloud, savours the tang of it, how it slips into a citrusy taste at the end.

"O Rose, thou art sick,  
The inevitable worm,  
That flies in the night  
In the howling storm:  
Has found out they bed  
Of crimson joy:  
And his dark secret love  
Does thy life destroy."

He sighs as she finishes, and she thinks it's in longing. Or relief. She's still not great at reading humans, and he's harder than many others she's encountered. She's peering at him, like staring will give her an answer, when blue eyes flick up.

"You don't read like her."

"Of course not," she snaps back. She did her best, but he’s thinking of someone else, someone entirely different. "I'm not your mother."

"No. Evidently not." 

This time it's easy to perceive his anger. Something swirls inside of him, and it takes her a moment to recognize his demonic energy. Its rarely this agitated, even when she watches him heal.

"You're a joke. A simulacrum. A ghost of the woman she was. You're nothing, really, compared to her. Just a puppet living in her skin, mimicking." He scoffs. "Do you even have a name of your own, or does he call you Eva, too?"

"I--" 

His words cut through her, straight to the heart of her incessant questions. Eva--it tastes sweet but fills her with bitterness. She wants to fling her name back at him, but as she reaches for it, she finds none waiting. She doesn’t have one. Mundus does. Shadow does. Griffon does. But he never bothered to give her one. She’s just a tool to Mundus, unworthy of it. Well. She’ll pick one for herself, then, and he’ll have no say in it.

“Next time I’ll have one,” she declares.

She snaps the book close and stalks away, leaving all the others behind, giving him no time to answer. He doesn’t need to, and she cannot bear the victorious gleam in his eyes.

** **

###

** **

Trish.

He doesn’t ask why she picked that name. He’s not sure he wants to know, really. What does it matter? It’s pointless, all of it. But no, he knows that’s wrong. Names matter. He’s been clinging to _ his _ hard enough. Vergil. Vergil, Son of Sparda. Some days it has become hard to remember what that’s supposed to mean, but he holds as tight as he can. 

Mundus doesn’t even bother to tie him down anymore. It’s not like he can stand for more than a minute. It’s one of the many things his body has given up on doing. Healing is another. Scars have turned into deep blue lines, infused with a power not his, a power Mundus is tempting him with. He could stop this suffering, accept the power and the armour. Accept subservience.

The first time Mundus tried to encase Vergil in full armour, he ripped the pieces off. Tore them from his flesh and bled on and on, always on the brink of death. No regrets, though. He felt the way they mined his already battered sense of self, and he knew he couldn’t accept this. It’s only a matter of time before Mundus tries again with more than single pieces--a matter of time before he’s too weak to refuse--but that won’t stop him from fighting.

That’s one thing Vergil has yet to forget: he needs to fight back. Someone needs him to make it through. Someone… Nero. Nero needs him. He can’t forget his son. If he can cling to Nero…

It’s easier with Trish around. She reads him poetry. He still doesn’t understand why, but he’s given up on that. She sits next to him and he stares at the endless hellish grey above, and she cracks any of her collections and tries to decipher them aloud. He’s pretty sure she doesn’t really care. Half her comments are mockery, and he doesn’t mind, because he manages to find them funny. Sometimes he’s particularly rested, and he even makes his own. On those days, when his wits resurface somehow, he feels like he knows what ‘Vergil’ is supposed to mean better.

The best days are those she reads William Blake. Blake’s been part of Vergil’s life for so long, every verse comes with an array of memories. It’s almost overwhelming, how much they’ve weaved through his life, good and bad. And some of them… with some of them, he sees a child’s drawing, nonsensical but beautiful nonetheless, and he hugs those memories close to himself. She’s helping him more than he cares to admit and still he doesn’t understand why. He gets a sense that she’s looking for something in him, and it amuses him. He’s losing so much, it’d be a miracle if she managed to find anything.

He cracks the day she reads _ The Little Boy Lost _ to him. He shouldn’t trust her. He knows he shouldn’t. But she looks like his mother, and he feels better when she’s around, safer, more like himself. So the words spill out on their own.

“I miss my son.”

His voice has changed; less nasal, deeper. At least he can tell it’s different. He knows that won’t always be the case, that one day he’ll forget the change. He knows he’s losing, slowly but surely, and he can’t fathom never seeing Nero again, even though he has no idea how long he’s been here.

“You have--” She stops herself, cuts off her surprise. “Does Mundus know?”

Vergil wonders. Probably. Demons had first found Nero, and Nero had been there when they’d captured him. It would be foolish to hope that secret has remained safe. He’s a fool, though, so he hopes anyway.

“You tell me,” he says. Talking feels good, even if it’s about things that leave his throat tight and his body crushed by a very different pain than he’s used to. A weight on his lungs. Grief, he thinks. He’s grieving his lost family. That tastes like defeat, but he can’t help it. “He’s a beautiful boy. Stubborn and brilliant and kind. I--”

He stops. He can’t go on. He’ll cry if he does, and he’s not ready for that. Light fingers touch his cheek, and he startles, too used to pain. Trish never touches him, usually. Her skin is cool. When he glances her way, she seems as surprised as he is and quickly pulls back.

“The only child I’ve ever seen was screaming at the top of their lungs while battering the ground with fists and feet.”

Memories of a hundred different tantrums flood back into him, and a raw laugh tears out of him. Nero had ran him ragged more than once, yet now his past exhaustion and desperation seem minuscule, barely worthy of the words. The weight on his chest lifts to some extent. 

“Children do that. Nero more than most, I’m sure.”

He tells her, in halting tones, of that time Nero had grabbed the pickle jar, drank it, and gave himself diarrhea, back when they’d barely known each other for a week. At first, the story comes slowly, his memories trying to slip away before he can catch them. But he gets the hang of it, remembers more and more, and by the time he’s talking of crawling into bed again, next to Nero--_his little monster_\--Vergil doesn’t feel like a shell anymore. Trish has been laughing without pause through most of it, the sound entirely different from his mother’s, which he much prefers. She’s come often enough now that he no longer sees Eva, most of the time.

“Thank you,” he says, when he is finished and silence has nestled back between them again.

“Vergil.” 

She’s never used his name before, he’s pretty sure. It’s grounding, too. So much of this is. He’s still in so much pain, but he hasn’t felt this alive in… a long time. He’s not sure how long, and he’s too afraid to ask. Trish pushes herself up, gathering the poetry book. She’s leaving, he surmises, and he’s disappointed. He doesn’t want to fade again.

“You don’t belong here,” she says.

He turns to her, and somehow--somewhere--he finds the strength to sit up. Every muscle screams in pain and the world tilts, but he holds himself up anyway. Vergil meets Trish’s eyes, so green and familiar, yet shining in their own way. A glance at his skin, cracked with blue veins, tells him he’s already changed beyond recognition. He wonders if it’ll heal, wonders if he’ll ever get a chance to find out. It’s been a long time since he’s last thought about escaping.

“I know,” he replies. “I belong with Nero.”

** **

###

** **

She can’t break him out herself. She’s told Vergil she makes her own decisions, but that’s not entirely true. If Mundus wants to, he can smash her willpower to pieces and take over. There’s no way she can sneak him out with her, and the moment they’re caught, they’re done for. She shouldn’t even be contemplating this. No one escapes Mundus.

He’s tried on his own, too. Just suddenly broke the stone spikes holding him, or ripping them out of his flesh, and stumbling forward, with no idea where he was going, or how to get out of Hell. The determination mostly amused Mundus, who’d let him wander until he’d collapsed. It’s been a while since Vergil has tried anything like it, however. It’s been a while since he’s had the energy for more than a mumbled greeting.

At first, Trish doesn’t understand what changed him today, but she rereads the poem, and she can see the way it wraps around Vergil’s life, and even though she’s never had a child herself, has barely ever interacted with them, she’s heard something in his voice that makes his agitation understandable. _ The night was dark no father was there_. Nero. The name he always repeated, clung to despite everything.

She finds herself wondering about this child, finds herself wanting to recreate the hints of happiness she heard today. That sort of fondness--of joy--has never had a place in Hell. Trish can’t help but think it’s an interesting feeling, can’t help but hope she can experience it too, one day. She’s not heartless, she knows this, and tears aren’t the only way to prove it.

Vergil doesn’t belong here, and she’s starting to think… neither does she. No one escapes Mundus, though, and Trish can see only one way out. If Mundus is dead, there is no need to escape him. She’s going to need Vergil’s equal, the reason for her creation, the twin she’s meant to lure: Dante.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is actually the first chapter I wrote of this fic. It all poured out in a day, and the next day I had the very first scene from Chapter One; from there I knew I needed to do this fic, even though it was a really big departure from the AU’s usual stories.
> 
> Also that was my first time writing Trish's POV, and wow did it give me a whole new appreciation for her <3


	8. Birthday Wish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a new guest joins the birthday party!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick note since it'll be even more apparent this chapter: this universe's Trish has lexical-gustatory synesthesia, which means the words have an actual taste for her. You'll notice she describes a few of those tastes in the previous chapter, or when she's reading poetry. The idea is that Mundus doesn't actually know how humans work all that much and he just... built her like that.

_ It’s midnight. I can hear the church’s bell. _ <strike>_ We would _</strike> _ I turn fifteen today. No cake. _ <strike>_ I never want a birthday cake alone. _</strike> _ I have my own pointless indulgences. I just wish the fumes from my salt and vinegar chips would keep the demons at bay as effectively as they do sleep. I hear the scuttle of their feet, nearing my location. I will not hurry for their sake. They can die once I’ve drank my vinegar. _

** **

Tricking Griffon into revealing Dante’s location was a piece of cake. Escaping Hell unnoticed and then traveling there? A whole different matter, even with Mallet Island still half-deserted. That was a good sign; she was ahead of Mundus’s trap. He’d notice her absence and try to complete preparations, most likely, but if she reached Dante fast enough… She made her way through this weird human world, where time and space refused to temporarily bend to her will, where weak creatures leered at her like she should belong to them. She had only been on the human side a few times since her creation, and each had baffled her more than the first. The strange white substance blowing about as she finally made her way to this Devil May Cry place was a new addition, some annoying manifestation of weather that forced her to squint and got her lost a few times. Trish hated stomping through it, and by the time she’d spotted the white-covered neon spelling the name of this Dante’s place, she was crackling with electricity and lightning fell from the sky to meet her, matching her anger.

She kicked the door in, snapping it on its hinges, and was immediately granted by a hail of bullets. Trish leaped upward, dodging most, and a few stung her legs. She rose her hands as she landed, showing them empty (that was supposed to be a sign among humans, no?), but the electricity running along her arms must have broken the effect. The woman who’d shot most bullets had a bigger, two-barrelled weapon out lined up on her.

“Greetings,” Trish said.

“Lady, wait!”

A white-haired man pushed her gun aside, staring at her. There was no mistaking those blue eyes and sharp nose, but Dante’s smile gave the face he shared with his twin an entirely different feel. It was wide and mocking, open and relaxed in a way she’d never seen on Vergil, and she didn’t quite know what to make of it. It didn’t help that he was entirely shirtless, with nothing but bright red pants on, and he spread his arms out like he didn’t have a care in the world. 

“We have a guest on this most special day, it seems,” he declared, and under the pleasant tone, she felt his demonic energy roil, threatening. “One whose beauty has but one equal… and none alive anymore. So what’s the honour?”

“The fuck, Dante?” Lady asked. “I know you love chatting up demons, but Nero…”

Her gaze flicked to a small human, sitting at a table farther in the chaos that was this place, staring at them with wide eyes. _ Nero. _ Trish’s heart pumped and her throat dried. She’d betrayed Mundus the moment she’d left Hell without warning, and now she needed to bring Dante back, to bring him to his brother.

“Can’t be helped, Lady,” Dante said. “I don’t get to hang out with my mom’s copy every day, especially in that sexy get-up. That’s kinda real disturbing there, demon babe.”

“It’s Trish.” She tilted her chin up, refusing to change her clothes and looks. She was her own person, and she loved that leather outfit. “I need your help to defeat Mundus.”

"Awesome!" He clapped his hands twice and grinned. "I've wanted to kick his ass for a good long while now."

Trish couldn't help but return his smile. Something hard lurked under his cheerful enthusiasm, but what mattered was that he was in. His lady companion, on the other hand, scoffed and raised her gun again.

“This is the most bullshit trap I've seen in ages. We've been trying to get to Mundus for months now. How come you're _ just _showing up? Why would you want him dead?"

Trish laughed. Those were good questions. Why _ did _ she want him dead? He had created her. She wouldn't even exist without him! But the more time passed, and the less that seemed enough. She had spent all this time trying to unravel who she was and what existing even meant, and while Mundus had had a singular purpose in mind--one she _ was _accomplishing now, after a fashion--she’d found herself seeking other reasons. Hovering around Vergil had taught her there was a lot she'd never experience in Mundus's hellish landscape.

"His name is ashes on my tongue," she said, and she reached within her back pocket, for the strange red amulet she'd taken from Vergil, the one with his name on it. "There's someone down there who told me once he had but one equal, and that equal wasn't Mundus."

Shock spread across Dante's face as she threw the amulet at him, but it was gone by the time he caught it, replaced by an easy smile. "Equal?" Dante repeated with a scoff. "Now that's just like him. I defeated him last time, and I could kick his ass any day!"

It was strange, how easy to read Dante was, compared to his twin. Trish could see right through the bravado, to the softness in his voice and the way he clung to the amulet, to something like hope and determination. She thought so, anyway--those were the feelings slowly cementing in herself, too. "Then I've knocked at the right door, it seems."

"Hold your horses," Lady snapped. "Vergil just _ gave _you that? As if!"

She was easy to read, too, like a demon hissing an aggressive challenge, priming itself for a fight. Her ‘as if’ was an explosion of taste, spicy and bitter and so much more--not unlike her name, really. "When did I ever say that? I took it from him. I needed proof, and it's not like he was in any state to notice."

A deep chill settled in the room. Dante's wide smile hadn't budged at all, yet the new tension set Trish on edge. She responded by flicking her hair and striding in, meeting his searching blue eyes head-on.

"Cards on the table, Son of Sparda. Your lady's right. This is a trap. I _ was _ created as bait for you, and sooner or later, Mundus would've sent me. I just… left early! Free will is a bitch and I want to make the most of mine, because someone convinced me there was a point in fighting for that."

"Surprised he didn't just tell you to fuck off," Dante countered.

"He certainly did some of that, too."

Dante laughed again, and there was something genuine through the jagged edges of it. He passed the amulet over his neck, where it clicked over an identical one. All he said was "Okay then" before picking up a dirty, long-sleeved black shirt and slipping it on. 

“You serious?” Lady asked, finally lowering the shotgun. “She just told you it was a trap.”

Dante shrugged and didn’t look over his shoulder as he replied. “Does it matter? Vergil’s there. I’m going.”

As simple as that, was it? Trish couldn’t help her frown. She didn’t understand this. Vergil had obviously had a lot of respect for his brother’s skills, but he’d never implied Dante would come running for his sake. They called him a demon hunter, and she’d expected him to relish the opportunity to face the Prince of Darkness and measure his strength, but instead he only seemed to care for Vergil. Trish tilted her head to the side as Dante vanished up the stairs, puzzling over this. It reminded her of the fondness in Vergil’s voice, when he first told her of Nero, of her own desire to see him win his fruitless battle against Mundus. 

She didn’t understand, not truly, but she figured that given time, she might find something like that for herself, too--a purpose to bring her joy, one she chose for herself.

** **

###

** **

Dante wrapped his fingers around the Yamato’s pommel and closed his eyes. It had grown familiar over the last month--its weight in his hands, the texture of the sheathe, the relief of the pommel, its soft blue glow at Nero’s proximity… Every night since learning it might slice the veils between worlds, Dante had held it, promised it what he no longer had the heart to promise his nephew: that he’d bring Vergil home safe soon. But it was time, now. Time to fix what had been broken and bring the Yamato to its true master.

To think he’d have the chance to patch his family back together through a literal recreation of his mother! This Trish sure had upended their sad little birthday with great news, and as disturbing as the sight was, he couldn’t help the warmth in his chest. Besides, her whole demeanour was so different from the lingering memories of Eva, he’d moved past the initial shock almost instantly. She felt… different. Like her own person. _ Free will is a bitch_, huh? He liked that--liked her. Sure, this might all be a big fat trap for him, but she’d had Vergil’s amulet, so one way or another, his twin was there.

Dante had spent eight months waiting for his chance. Eight months watching over Nero while others sought a portal or a clue. Eight months holding back, stifling his rage and fear, his urges to prowl and get revenge--eight months growing increasingly tired, weighed down by Vergil’s absence and his powerlessness. That was over, now. He’d found the path to Vergil, and he would see it through to the end. _ At last. _

It was time to dress up with his date for Mundus! He grabbed the fancy wine red vest he’d bought for Christmas in his pathetic attempt to force an ambiance Vergil would’ve approved of and slipped it on, then grabbed his favourite, flaring red coat on the way out. All he needed now was little gifts for the Prince of Darkness! Dante hurried to the stairs, jumped on the railing and let himself slide all the way down, leaping at the last moment to land next to his desk. He had Ebony & Ivory in their holster within a few seconds, then he reached for Rebellion. His palm settled on the skull in its pommel, but he stopped himself. 

He couldn’t wait to kick Mundus’s ass, but the dude was no joke, and Trish had brought him Vergil’s half of the amulet. He’d learned the hard way what it could do, once joined into a single whole. After a brief hesitation, he whispered a quick apology to his trusted sword and removed Force Edge from its long held spot on the wall. This asshole wanted to fuck with Sparda’s legacy? He’d get the full blast of Legendary Dark Knight (or whatever) power right back at him. With his brother’s sword at his waist, his father’s sword on his back, and his own trusty guns at the ready, Dante turned to face the room. They all stared at him--Lady with a scowl, Trish with obvious curiosity, and Nero with awe.

“I’m ready to get this party started!” he declared, before striding to the chair next to his nephew, dragging it back, and plopping himself into it. The birthday cake throned on the table, its candles blown out by Trish’s entrance. “But first we gotta finish _ this _party, dontcha think? There’s five candles on this lil’ cake--must be fate. One for each of us, and the fifth for good old demon dad, once I drag him back.”

“D-Da’?”

Nero’s question was barely a squeak. Dante had no doubts he’d followed at least chunks of the conversation, and now the poor kid stared at him with wide eyes, like he didn’t quite know what to make of everything he’d heard. Dante’s heart hammering into his chest. It had been months since Vergil had vanished, and he’d been prepared to disappear into Hell himself, for however long it took to return with him. But this was better. This was _ hope_, and he wanted his nephew to understand it. He grinned at him--one of his first real smile in ages.

“I’m going to get your dad, Nero. I promise.”

Nero stared back, and after an instant he scowled at Dante. “You’re leaving!”

“Only for a time. I’ll be back--”

“You won’t!” Nero yelled, cutting him off, his anger so familiar now. This time, however, tears welled in his eyes with it. “You won’t come back! I know. Everyone always leaves!”

He grabbed his tiny fork and flung it at Dante, who easily deflected the projectile. By the time he looked again, Nero had jumped down his seat, feet hitting the ground hard as he stomped away. Dante swept him off his feet, his throat tight, his mind reeling.

“Woah. _ Woah there_, lil' bud,” he said, holding Nero tight as the boy struggled to get away. “I’m not leaving you. I promise.”

Nero replied with a punch to his face, forcing Dante to grab his arms. He’d grown a lot in the nearly two years Dante had known him, but he was still a tiny child, and he didn’t stand a chance against him. Once he had both wrists under control, Dante planted his gaze in Nero’s teary eyes. 

“Kiddo. Nero. Listen to your zio.” Not that he knew what the hell to tell him. “Your dad didn’t leave you. He was _ taken _ from us, and I’m going to get him back. We’ll _ both _return.”

“I don’t believe you! You can’t leave!” Nero tried to fight against his hold and managed to kick him hard in the belly. Dante held on, every accusation thrown by Nero hurting a thousand times more than his little kicks. Fuck, but Vergil’s absence had really done a number on him.

Nero continued to protest as Dante walked to his desk and swiped up the kid’s black marker, then sat him down forcefully on the surface. “All right, kiddo, how ‘bout we make a game? I’m leaving--” He ripped the top of a pizza box and turned to Nero. “--and you don’t have to believe I’ll be back. I just will. But! I’d like to leave knowing you won’t give Lady any trouble, ya know? So here’s my idea…”

He crouched in front of Nero, who’d gone silent. Sometimes the best thing to do with this kid was to give him a choice. At the very least, he tended to go quiet while he looked at his options, and that little breather could do wonders to his moods.

“Ya can count up to ten, right? Well, I want you to draw a black line on this pizza box every morning. And as long as there isn’t ten lines, you be good with Lady and listen to her, all right?” He offered the marker to Nero, who tentatively took it, his frown only deepening. He looked an awful lot like Vergil like that, and Dante gritted his teeth against the familiar pain. That would be over soon. “And Nero… I promise I’ll be back before the tenth line. This nightmare is almost over.”

Nero’s eyes moved from the cardboard pizza top to Dante, and big fat tears started rolling down his cheeks. He clutched the marker hard against his chest. “Zio, I--” A heavy sob tore through him, and Dante picked him up, squeezing him tight against his chest. “I don’t wanna--Don’t leave, Zio.”

There didn’t exist a demon out there that could hurt him as acutely and permanently as his nephew’s panicked crying. Dante ran a hand through the white hair, which had grown a little greasy (damn he'd forgotten the shampoo again), and kissed Nero's forehead. "I have to. But it's for a very short time."

"Everyone al-always leaves me."

His earlier angry declaration had turned into a plaintive whine. Dante rubbed his back in silence for a few moments, wishing that he could somehow solve this without ever leaving Nero's side. Poor little bud had already had too hard a time with all this bullshit.

"Yo Nero," Lady started, and the kid's head shot up. Unless they were reading, she still rarely talked to him directly, especially when he wasn't in a good mood. "It's your birthday. Now's the perfect time to make any wish happen."

"Right!" Dante grinned at her as he got her idea. "If you wish for something really hard while blowing on your candles, it'll become true!" He brought the kid back into his seat, hoping the good news would help distract him. "You just have to wish your zio comes back with your dad!"

"I can… wish? And it happens?" He wiped at his tears, eying them with obvious doubts.

"Yeah! We'll do it together," Dante said, and it drew a soft smile out of Nero (the first of many, many more, he hoped). Lady brought the matches, and Dante turned to their unexpected guest. "Join us! Sit down, relax, enjoy some cake. We'll be on our way right after."

She stared back at him but didn't move.

** **

###

** **

Eat cake? Join them? What kind of strange human was this Dante? What kind of person did he think _ she _ was? She stared at the baked thing at the center of the table, round and covered in a yellow paste that sometimes formed spikes, tiny sticks of wax lit up on it. She'd studied the human world to some extent, knowing she'd be expected to move through it unnoticed for her mission, but while she _ knew _cake in theory… she hadn't expected the practice to look so ugly.

"What's the matter?" Dante asked her. "Don't like the look of it?"

"I don't need to eat."

Dante snorted and spread out his arms. "So what? Live a little! Cake's delicious and it won't hurt you." He picked up his fork and pointed it at her. "I bet it's a thousand times better than the food they serve in Hell."

Trish squashed down the remnants of her hesitation. Why the hell not? This was why she wanted to escape, was it not? To ‘live a little’, as he put it. Might as well start with cake. She strode to the nearest chair, pulled it back, and lavishly settled into it, one leg crossed over the other. “Clearly you’ve never experienced our delicious flesh patties and blood smoothies.”

He burst out laughing, the sound wide and expansive in a way she’d never heard before. It had no rough edges this time, just the genuine pleasure of her humour, and her gaze flicked back up to him. She liked it, and she liked that she’d provoked it even more. He turned to the smaller human (Nero, Vergil’s son, his anchor) and grinned at him. 

“Ya ready to blow the candle, kiddo? We gotta get ‘em all for the wish to come true.”

Trish frowned, wondering where this inaccurate belief had come from, but she withheld the question and observed instead. Lady counted down the seconds, and both Dante and Nero blew hard on the candles, the latter putting almost as much spit as breath into the act. They flickered away and the two shared a celebratory gesture, clapping their palms together while Lady sliced the cake in five somehow perfectly equal portions. She never stopped glaring at Trish as she did.

Before long, Trish had her own slice, in a plate before her. She wrapped her entire hand around the fork and stared at it, suddenly uncertain. She’d never eaten before, and to be partaking in their strange tradition felt utterly absurd. She was Mundus’s creation, honed towards a single goal, and cake certainly wasn’t it. But neither had poetry been, and betrayal even less. If he was going to make her pay for the latter, she might as well experience what she could. 

A small hand tugged at her elbow, and she was startled to find Nero by her seat, looking up at her. “Miss Demon, I can show you how to hold the fork.”

Her eyebrows shot up. She glanced at her hand, holding it like she meant to stab, then at how Lady and Dante had done it. Definitely not the same. Before she could readjust her grip and tell the tiny human not to bother, he grabbed the side of the table and her leg, and heaved himself right onto her lap.

“S’okay not to know. I didn’t. My da’ had to show me.”

Trish froze as he settled his weight on her, uncertain how to deal with this behaviour. What did he think he was doing? But then he pried the fork out of her hand, changed its position to the correct one, and dutiful placed each of her fingers around. He had to stretch forward to do so, and once it felt like he was about to slip, so Trish caught his shoulder. Once Nero was done, he proudly declared, “There!” and hopped off her.

She stared at the fork, then back at him. His help had been entirely unnecessary, yet it brought a strange warmth to her chest--something she could not name, yet found rather agreeable. Was that the sort of joy she’d heard seeping through Vergil’s tone? The two adults were staring at her, but Nero had just gone back to his cake, shoving more of it into his mouth. Humans had a word for these situations, one that tasted of almost nothing but a hint of freshness.

“Thanks,” she said, before carefully slicing through her cake and bringing the first bite to her mouth.

Cake, she found, was weird. It tasted like the word 'soil', punchy with a hint of acid, but the brown paste on it had an even stronger sweetness, one she associated with 'fog'. It wasn't a disagreeable mix, and she let herself imagine the landscape conjured by this taste while she ate more. This wasn't what she'd expected for a child's celebration, but somehow it reminded her of Vergil--his name had that acid to it, too, only much stronger and with an underlying saltiness. The most confusing part, however, was that this cake didn't taste remotely like the _ word _cake did. That would be a mystery for later.

She hurried through her slice, enjoying it more with every bite. When she set down her fork, Dante whistled. "Looks like eating's suiting you just fine after all. I'll treat ya to pizza as soon as we're back, then!"

Trish looked sharply at him. As soon as they were back? She hadn't expected an invitation to stay, wasn't sure she wanted to. Her very creation had revolved around the Sons of Sparda, and she didn't know if that's what she wanted for her whole existence. But that shouldn't stop her from one pizza, should it? Soon, nothing would stop her from doing whatever she wanted, and if that little pizza invitation brought that nice, unfamiliar warmth through her chest, then she'd take it.

"Sure," she said, leaning back into her chair and crossing one leg over the other, ankle on her thigh. "You may not want to delay departure any longer, however. Time has no significance in Hell, and it could be stretching on with every minute spent here."

Dante's grin never faltered, but it felt like a shell now, its true mirth long departed. He bounced up to his feet and strode around the table. "Right you are. Let's bring the party to Mundus, then!"

She unfurled from her chair as he passed her, falling into steps behind, her gaze trailing the ornate but otherwise fairly unremarkable sword at his back. Somehow, she’d expected something flashier from him, but apart from the W-shaped guard, this weapon didn’t have much going for it--which, truly, meant little about the skills of the one wielding it. They were almost at the door when Lady called out.

“Dante!”

His name tasted of smoke, but not the acrid fumes of Hell, and not entirely disagreeable. Lady had stood up, and she had both hands on Nero’s shoulders. The boy stared at them with intensely blue eyes, and Trish wondered if colours were more vivid here in the human world, or if his were even brighter than his father’s. He tilted his chin up with a determined little frown, and it suddenly became impossible not to see the resemblance. Lady squeezed his shoulders.

“Don’t get yourself killed ‘cause I’m not there to have your back.”

Dante laughed. “Whatcha worried about, Lady?” he asked, waving dismissively at the air before turning to the door and flinging them open, allowing the storm in. “I got Trish watchin’ it, after all.”

Lady glared at her. “Yeah, no need to worry about that at all.”

She didn’t trust Trish. Nothing to do about that, was there? Not that Trish entirely cared; as long as Mundus died, she was good with the result. So she grinned at Lady before spinning on her heels, heading out after Dante, simply waving over her shoulder with a playful “Ta-ta!”

Then they were out into this strange white storm, on their way to Mallet Island.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The rescue party is on its way!! With DMC1-style Dante!! 
> 
> (also here we are, the salt & vinegar chips headcanon has found its way into this AU too. :D)


	9. The Second Son of Sparda

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Trish and Dante head to (and through!) Mallet Island.

_ Found a new type of demon. It is a wraith of sort, its body cloaked in a void not unlike the Death Scissors. But it is… different, in that it can shape and colour the void however it wishes. It uses this ability first for camouflage and can render itself near invisible. More notably, it seems capable of inserting itself into human minds, upon touch. _

_ I do not know why a demon would develop this ability, since they spent most of their lives confined to Hell. It may have been manufactured? Is that possible..? _

_ In any case, it is deadly. The visions it brought forth--nightmares and dreams all at once. I saw--No. It is of no consequence. No more significant than my reflection in a mirror. What matters is to exterminate them before they reach me, through any means necessary. _

Pizza Time came faster than Dante had anticipated. Whatever remote island Trish was leading him to wasn't all that close, and they'd been driving through the whole ass night in a snowstorm before they reached the coast town. He'd been on a boat before and it made him queasy as all fuck, so if he was gonna puke anyway, he'd damn well fill his stomach with his favourite food and enjoy life before it turned into a non stop mix of nausea and demons. Either way, they had two hours to kill before anyone dared to bring them to this Mallet Island place, and even that was pushing it, it seemed. All the locals whispered the name like it was cursed (which to be fair, it kinda was, if it had a portal to the demon world on it). One of the seamen had given Dante and Trish a long lookover, muttered something about them looking like the kind of people who enjoyed running into curses, and accepted to make the crossing in his too-tiny boat. 

Dante almost suggested flying off with his demon form instead, but the island was barely visible at the edge of their sight, strong winds still blew across the sea, and he’d rather be slightly nauseous than spent when he landed on it. Nero’s frequent demands for ‘El Zio Diablo’ had helped him gain more control and endurance with his devil powers, but even so… Mundus was gonna be no joke. 

So they waited, and while they waited, Trish tried out the pizza. For a demon who didn’t need to eat, she sure stuffed herself fast, and they’d ordered two more before they were even halfway through the first pair. 

"Verdict's good, I imagine?" Dante asked, a little flutter to his heart. Vergil would have scolded him endlessly for being nervous about a demon liking pizza, but what could he do? He wanted others to love it as much as he did!

She leaned back and offered a lazy nod and a non-committal "hm-hm". Not as enthusiastic as he'd wanted, but still good! Trish licked her fingers one by one, leaving him hanging on that tiny response--and when she spoke again, pizza was long gone from her mind.

"Those cake and candles with Nero…" Her tone was still casual, but there was something strained to it now, and Dante didn't think Trish was the type to hesitate. "You were… celebrating?"

"Yep. Birthday party. Kiddo just turned five years old and you brought him the best gift of all."

"Birth Day," she repeated, with a distinct pause between the two words, before tapping her lips with the tip of her index finger. "Interesting concept."

It took a moment for Dante to understand what was so special about it. "Demons don't do birthdays, huh? Must get boring after a few centuries."

"Demons don't really celebrate anything at all. Death, perhaps--that of their enemies." Pizza arrived as she spoke, earning them a set of raised eyebrows from their waiter. He didn't comment, however, and Trish pulled herself a new slice. 

"D’you even have a birthday? You can't be all that old, what with being made like mom."

"No birthday and no age. Time in Hell doesn't work that way." She chomped down on her slice, and Dante decided to join her. They had transferred half the pizza to their stomach in a matter of minutes, but Trish had been studying him intently through it all, like he was a puzzle or something. "I'm a tool, not something you celebrate. Didn't even have a name at first."

She said it so matter-of-factly, like that wasn't the most bullshit thing in the universe. Clearly she was enough of a person to subtly tell Mundus to fuck off by finding Dante, not to mention she appreciated the cake and pizza. Dante scoffed, tore a pizza slice, and offered it to her. "Putting that under Reason 67 for Killing Mundus: Treats Others as Tools. S'great, I love how long this list is gettin'. Perfect motivation, as my bro would put it."

Brief surprised flicked through her expression, but she hid it by snatching the pizza out of his hands and taking a solid bite out of it. Dante laughed and leaned back, more relaxed than he'd felt in ages. Now that he knew he was on his way to Vergil, it felt like he could finally breathe again.

"So… you picked your own name? Trish?"

She nodded while she swallowed (apparently demons had good enough manners not to talk with their mouths full, which was more than Dante could say for himself). "It tasted like lightning swirls."

"Lightning has a taste?" 

"Of course!" She tilted her head to the side. "It's like any other words, really, but it was pleasing to me."

"You taste words?"

"Don't you?" 

"Nope." Now that was something else! Dante grinned at her, leaning forward. "Must be a demon thing. Or a you thing! But in my world, words are just sounds tumbling out of my mouth and annoying others."

She laughed, and Dante had to admit he really liked the sound of it--sharp and honest and self-surprising. He wondered if her laugh tasted something to her, too. While she absorbed this new information, he shoved a slice into his mouth, savouring the greasy, cheesy deliciousness. Then a very important question occurred, and his table manners vanished with it.

"Wait, does pizza tastes like the word pizza?" he asked, his mouth half-full.

"Afraid not."

"Oh, I can’t accept that." He finished his bite and resisted the urge to take the next immediately. "You gotta tell me what the word tastes. Maybe there's one type of pizza out there that actually does match up! We gonna have to try 'em all to know."

Trish's expression hovered between confusion and amusement, and her stare-of-unpuzzling-the-Dante intensified. He wasn't sure what her mind didn't wrap around this time, but he figured it had to do with the pizza talk. Made sense, if she hadn't been around the human world much (and he kept catching her staring at super mundane things like the ketchup bottle or the napkins). So he blabbered on about different pizza types and toppings, trying to find any that might actually taste like the word pizza did to her, but as it turned out, Trish had never eaten before and they had little common ground to describe and compare. Either way, this had to be the longest conversation Dante had ever had with devils that didn't end in shooting and fighting, and he was having a blast with it. Then he wondered if Vergil had grilled her about the intricacies of the underworld or if he'd been in no state to care at all, and his easy smile went down a notch. The second round of pizza was gone, and without food to distract himself from the thoughts, he found himself voicing them.

"So… Vergil."

He didn't know how to ask. His brother had been down there for eight months (however long that became in Hell), at Mundus's mercy, enduring whatever the Prince of Darkness had in store (that couldn't be good). He was _ alive _ (that was great!), but if Trish had been able to snatch their mom's amulet from him, he had to be in a shit state.

“Mundus wants a new toy--a perfect general,” she said.

Dante snorted. Vergil? His general? His brother might have undone their father’s work by summoning the Temen-ni-gru and played right into the demons’ hands, but submitting to Mundus was a whole other matter. “He’ll never accept that.”

“I noticed!” She laughed, but now the sharp sound was incongruous, sending spikes of pain through his heart. Dante grinned back at her, the sort of smile he pulled on demons before he kicked their asses. Maybe Trish sensed his mood; her mirth died and she shook her head. “He may fight it, but Mundus has ways to break others. I don’t know in what state we’ll find him.”

“Then let’s get to it.”

Dante dug into his pockets and slapped enough bills on the table to cover for the pizzas before grabbing Force Edge and slinking out of the bench seats. Their ride was about to leave, and his powers swirled within, demanding to be released, to find a target for all his anger and hope.

###

Mallet Island was less deserted than on her first passage, but most minor demons crawling upon it were no match for Dante's skills. Even when he was still queasy from the boat (she hadn't known humans did that; the captain seemed fine), he ripped through the hordes, taunting and spinning and laughing, red coat snapping in the air as he jumped high up to rain bullets down on them. She watched more often than she participated, assessing his skills, wondering what were his chances against Mundus. He was good, that much was obvious, but against Marionnettes and Kyklops, it was hard to test just how good. Every now and then she zapped a line of enemies, more for her own satisfaction than because Dante really needed the help. 

They carved their way through the castle, and in the few hours they needed to either kill what stood in their way or bypass a quickly-put together trap, Trish laughed more than she had in her whole lifetime. She couldn't help herself! Dante was always slinging one one-liner or another, and they swung between "surprisingly good retorts" to "so bad it turned hilarious" with no inbetween. Vergil had been so different in that regard. He tended to keep silent, first of all, and even when he'd had the energy for humour, his had been dry and sharp, rare but exceedingly cutting. He'd seemed funny to her, at the time, but she had few worthy points of comparison. The way Dante approached demon hunting, you'd think he was enjoying a fun but easy game.

That was… until they found the portal, and Nightmare found them.

She had heard of Mundus’s attempt to create a weapon of pure ruin, but Trish hadn’t expected it to have found its way to Mallet Island so soon. Yet there was no mistaking the throbbing power that rose from the ground as they approached the shimmering red crack that marked the castle’s entrance to Hell. Plates of demonic material rose from the ground in a misshapen amalgam, covered in runes and filled with a dark ooze in which the bones of countless dead were trapped. A single eye briefly opened amidst the shifting chaos of Nightmare’s body. It blinked once, as if in challenge.

Dante laughed and set his sword on his shoulder. “Ya smell worse than the toilet at home.” He stepped forward, not a hint of tension in his casual stride, even though he had to feel the immense power crackling through the room. “Just as ugly, too!”

He sprinted forward, and Nightmare’s eye closed. A terrible screech spread through the room, the chilling sound of a thousand death screams, and even Dante ducked its head with a scowl. Trish let it wash over her, ignoring how much it reminded her of home, of Mundus and impossible power and despair, and watched as her chosen champion dove into the fight.

Black spikes veined with powers jutted out of the ground, but Dante dodged out of the way, always one step away ahead of Nightmare’s attack. He leaped up at the third one, landing back on it and using it as a springboard towards the bulkier of Nightmare’s plates. Shards of white energy materialized like burning fireflies, but he shot half of them and twisted midair to dodge the others, landing on top of Nightmare with grace. The runes glowed brighter, shifting from purple to an aggressive red and casting a crimson light on Dante’s face. He stood, bathed in red and grinning as he brought his broadsword to bear, and suddenly it became easier to see the demon in him, eager for battle and destruction.

Force Edge sliced through the armour--once, twice--and Nightmare’s form collapsed.

The pause lasted a second, just long enough for her to frown and wonder if that was all, then the sludge that had leaked outward as it flattened sprung up, arching above Dante to form a shimmering net. He whooped at it and spun his sword quickly, slicing a small opening and stepping through. As Dante landed on its plates once more, Nightmare’s assault turned relentless. Spikes and beams crisscrossed the room, a chaos of explosion and deadly strikes aimed at a single man, yet the demon hunter danced through them without ever losing his smile. Scratches healed as he pressed his attack, sludge clinging to his red coat and white hair with every cut through it, and for all of its power, it seemed Nightmare was too slow to score a significant hit on Dante.

Then something shifted in the tingle of power crackling through the room--a gathering of energy, like a tight locus called everything into Nightmare and even the air in Trish’s lungs seemed to answer its call. Dante paused as he felt it, cocking his head to the side.

“I love it when they keep tricks up their sleeves,” he declared. “Come on!”

He gestured at Nightmare, and as if in answer, the great demon’s eye reopened. Except it shone a bright white, tremendous power gathered within. It met Dante’s challenge with a single, intense burst of destruction aimed at him. 

Dante whistled as he jumped aside and a fraction of his coat evaporated, caught in it.

The beam sliced upward, disintegrating the entire wall where it touched it, boring a hole in the ceiling above them. Huge sections of it collapsed, raining boulders and acid sludge on Dante. He cut through a rock and jumped back to dodge another, but there was no avoiding the dark substance falling from above, and for the first time since stepping on Mallet Island, Trish heard a sound of pain from Dante--a sharp, surprised hiss. Then Nightmare's body formed a massive, spiked fist, and it slammed into him, and she heard her second--a simple, well-felt "_Ooof_."--as he flew into the remainder of the wall.

"Dante!"

Dust and rubble obscured Trish's view, but she had to trust that hadn't shattered his spine, that he'd be all right. He was supposed to be capable of taking Mundus down, after all! Still. Crackling electricity swirled around her, gathering in her palms and along her arms, her hair rising with it. She unleashed a blast on Nightmare, enough for the ponderous demon to shift in her direction. Good. That ought to buy Dante a few precious seconds.

Except now _ she _needed to keep ahead of this monstrosity.

Spiky appendages shot for Trish and she blasted them away with lightning before dashing away, corrosive sludge flying after her. Nightmare erected a wall of hardened sludge in her path and she punched through it without a pause, revelling in the sheer strength she possessed. She was bait, true, but Mundus had given her the ability to spring her own trap, too--and now she was using it against him. Sparks flew as her lightning met Nightmare’s bolts, and Trish started to understand what had Dante grinning all along. This fighting thing _ was _a lot of fun.

For all that she could hold her own--dodging and weaving between attacks, kicking at the rune-covered plates of the demon’s body, blasting apart its nets of sludge--Trish didn’t quite have Dante’s speed. Acid burns and cuts started to accumulate, stabs of pain that distracted her and messed with her balance. She couldn’t win this alone.

“Done taking a nap?” she called, risking a glance at the wall where Dante had smashed.

A second shift in the room’s energy answered her taunt, some pure and crystalline wave of power washing over them. Dante’s shadow stood, still obscured by the dust, and on its shoulder was an entirely different blade, massive and curved and pulsing with power.

“Fine, fine! We taking out the big guns, ain’t we?” Dante stepped forward, then dusted his coat with an exaggerated grimace. “Then I’ve got some bad news for you, friend.”

He lowered the sword, pointing it at Nightmare, and the power within coursed through his entire body. Nightmare screeched in response, sending a new wave of spikes at Dante.

When the demon hunter moved this time, Trish could barely keep track. He flew across the half-destroyed room, a red blur that collided with Nightmare’s central body, his new sword slicing through it like butter and leaving great red marks. Each strike sent a pulse of power through the room, reverberating through Trish like a demonic heartbeat, and she could only stand in awe as he stood upon Nightmare, shattered his hardened plate, and carved a way to the shining purple eye beneath. It threw another, much smaller beam in defense, but Dante leaned back with ease. Feet spread on each side, he then flipped his grip on the sword, freeing one hand to place it before his eyes, briefly, before removing it with a grin.

“Peek-a-boo!” he exclaimed, and he plunged the demonic sword in the eye.

Nightmare exploded with an ear-wrenching screech, the blast of energy sending Dante flying across the room and knocking Trish to the ground. He landed hard but on his feet, only a few feet away from her, and as the ceiling above Nightmare’s core began to collapse, he turned and offered his hand to her. 

“Now _ that _was a challenge, at least!” He pulled her up before stretching, turning his torso left and right as if just coming out of a warm-up. “Was starting to think your island only had boring little buddies.”

Trish’s gaze turned to the wall where he’d smashed, then to the sword he now wielded. “You even seemed in trouble for a moment.”

“In trouble? _ Nah._” He heaved the sword to examine its length. Something stiffened in his smile, making him more unreadable--more like Vergil, she thought, keeping the extent of his thoughts inside. He tapped the sword. “Figured I’d need this for Mundus, and it might be good to get used to it a little.”

Dante started towards the flickering portal as he spoke, and with his free hand he untied the second blade he’d brought with him--a katana he hadn’t touched at all during the fights. Casually, he offered it to her. “Listen, Trish… if he’s in a bad way and we have to fight, I’m trusting you to get him out of here. This is his. He’ll want it back.”

She wrapped her hands around the katana’s sheathe and frowned. “The Yamato, isn’t it?”

A quick laugh escaped Dante. “It has a reputation, huh?”

“I’ve been told it killed its share of demons over the last fifteen years.” She pushed the blade out with her thumb, peeking for a moment before bringing it back. As beautiful and deadly as the katana was, it wasn’t the blade she was most curious about. “What about yours? I can feel its power.” 

She hoped he’d take the opened door and tell her more. She had a guess--the demon world had its share of gossip about what had happened a few years ago, when the two Sons of Sparda had met at the edge of their realm, and quite a few legends about their father.

Dante cocked his head and grinned at her. They stood before the gate, and its now greyish-light cast strange shadows on him. “Yeah. Mundus got to feel that power some millenias ago, and he’s about to get another taste of it.”

He strode through the portal, blue eyes shining with determination, and Trish followed. As she reentered her realm, she could not help but wonder if the word ‘Sparda’ tasted the same as his sword through your flesh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I gotta say, writing Nightmare as an enemy was weird and made me kinda sad. but hey hey, we got Trish and Dante and the Sparda, and now they have a nifty portal to Hell, so THE STAGE IS SET FOR NEXT WEEK. :D


	10. Cracks in a Frozen Lake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rescue Time (TM)

_ He sends pathetic soldiers after me, now. They are meant to look human, under that armour, and wield greatswords that could swipe any head off. But they are even less clever than scuttling insectoids and have no real sense of swordmanship. I’ve made short work of them. They must be new; nothing so clumsy and easily defeated could have existed for long. I wonder if Mundus intends to refine them, and if one day I’ll meet a demonic swordsman worth their salt. _

“Vergil! Vergil, wake up!”

Hands shake his shoulders, scoop his chin and lift his head. He blinks, fighting to keep his eyes open, to emerge from the calming darkness, the reassuring nothingness. Thoughts have a way to be painful, but he’s found protection against them, in this armour. It clings to him, and he knows it still his mind. Part of him thinks he should fight it, but he can’t remember why. He’s not sure it’s worth it. Memories have been slipping through his fingers, escaping him, and every time he tries to catch them, he loses his focus. He still has a name, though, one he holds close to himself; a name and a child’s face, round cheeks and white bangs and big, blue, naive eyes.

Nero.

His gaze finally focuses, and he sees white bangs and blue eyes, too, and his heart thunders, memory clawing to return. There is warmth in his chest--hope, he thinks, and maybe love. These are becoming hard to name. He is forgetting so much. But this man… he is so familiar.

“Vergil…” Something chokes the man’s voice. “C’mon, bro, I’m here. I got you.”

Vergil. 

It’s his name.

The certainty jolts through him, a lightning bolt of recognition, and he gasps in pain as chunks of memory rush in, too, recoils away from the other man. His head feels like it’s going to burst and he squeezes his eyes shut briefly, long enough to bask in the name. _ Vergil_. He doesn’t even know what should come with it, but he clings to it, certain that it matters, and offers the only other name he has in return.

“Nero…”

Anguish flits through the man’s expression. “He’s with Lady. She’ll charge us up the ass with babysitting fees, but whatever. He’s safe.” 

Vergil closes his eyes, fighting against the waves of relief. He doesn’t grasp their depths, why he cares this much, but they leave him shaking so badly his chains rattle. …Chains? He frowns, only just now noticing them. How can he not remember these? But then again, there is very little he does recall. He can feel it all lurking under the surface, like water under a frozen lake, but he has no idea how to break the ice and reach for it. He has no idea if he should.

“Dante!”

Another voice--another person. Vergil shifts his attention to the woman by “Dante’s” side, tall with a beautiful curtain of golden hair. _ His mother_, his brain registers, but no. He immediately knows this is wrong. _ Trish_. He knows her from here, remembers books scattered around her, in this very place. She’s a crack in the lake’s surface, allowing him to glimpse fractions of the Vergil underneath, and his heart pounds at the possibilities, even though these memories are filled with pain. He has no time for them, however, as he follows the direction she’s pointing.

Rising from the ground itself, earth reshaping around the great statue’s majestic visage and thick shoulders, is his lord, Mundus. Dust and rubble fall off, a cloud slowly settling to reveal the chiseled image of a god. Dante reaches for the sword on his back--a long curved blade with a fleshy exterior and a spine on its inner edge, power pulsing from it--and he steps closer to Vergil. Trish tenses, her hand hovering above the grip of a katana by her side, and the sight of it sends his heart pounding. Neither seem very impressed by Mundus, but Vergil’s body knows what it has to do. He knows without any memory of it, a certitude ingrained within him, more natural than breathing.

Stretching to the limit of his chains, Vergil sets a knee to the ground and bows his head in obedience.

Dante flinches at the movement, and his reaction confuses Vergil. Should he not be doing the same? Why wasn’t Trish offering obedience? They were both of this place--both demons--and in Hell, all demons bowed to Mundus.

“The second, tainted son arrives.” 

Mundus spreads great marble arms, as if in welcome, and his voice resonates deep within Vergil. He understands, on some level, that he was the first, and that he is no longer tainted, though he couldn’t tell why. Dante scoffs at the very idea and gives a quick spin of the sword.

“Ya should’ve sent your invitation sooner. This hellhole’s not much, but I would’ve come to kick your ass at any opportunity!”

“How confident. How utterly naive.” Mundus’s head shifts towards Trish, and she sets a hand on her hip. The movement is slow, as if it costs her--as if she is fighting him for it.

“S’that where I backstab him?” she asks, and electricity sparkles on the tip of her fingers. “Sorry, seems I missed the cue. You should’ve built me a better sense for the dramatics.”

The lightning fizzles out as Mundus roars in indignation. Pure demonic energy crackles to life in the form of red javelins, a flurry of them flying across the field towards Dante and Trish. They dodge out of the way and Dante’s frank laugh tugs at his heart, making irritation and longing course through him.

“All right, time to dance.” Dante’s form changes, downturned horns sprouting along his head and wings extending from his back like a beetle’s. It feels familiar to Vergil, safe, even as it surprises him. As if he knows it, but not by Dante. He can’t explain any of these feelings, so he crushes them for now, desperate for a cool head and a sense of what is happening. Dante lowers his sword, placing it in ready position. “Trish, you know what to do.”

“Sure do,” she confirms, so he dashes forward, towards Mundus.

Power pulses out of Dante, and it tugs at his memories again, makes his own strength swirl to life inside. His head snaps up. He wants to fight, wishes deeply for a command to do so--though he suddenly realises, he cannot tell if he yearns to battle against Dante, or by his side. He growls at his own confusion. It should be simple: Mundus is his liege, and nothing else matters.

Trish plants herself before him, a hand on her hip, blocking his view of Dante rushing towards Mundus. “What’s with the knee, Vergil? I thought the Sons of Sparda didn’t submit!”

Her voice is a mocking singsong and it pulls at his pride. _ Sons of Sparda_. He growls at her, covering his own dismay at how the title echoes within him, filling his chest and heart with warmth. It’s a piece of him, and she’s just given it to him. Vergil, Son of Sparda. A part of him wants to shy away from it, to bury that truth deep and forget the pain he knows comes with it. But with Vergil comes Nero, doesn’t it, and there is only one certainty more deeply embedded in him than his allegiance to Mundus, one kernel of truth that has never left him: he belongs with Nero. And Nero is not here, with Mundus; he is with this Dante, and with Trish.

So he pushes himself up, armour and chains clanking with every movement, and meets her eyes. Words won’t come, not this time, so he only nods.

That seems enough for her. She strides around him, wraps her hands and arms into the two chains, and rips them out of the wall and ground with minimal effort. When he takes a step, they trail after him, fused within the dark armour. Trish sets a hand on his shoulder blade, where one chain must join, bracing herself, and he jerks away, fear jolting through him. He distrusts the armour yet dreads the impact of trying to tear the chain from it, can almost hear Mundus’ warnings about such a foolish act. Has he tried before? Was the pain worth it? This armour… it is supposed to protect him from his taint, after all. He gives Trish a small shake of his head.

“Suit yourself,” she says. A wave of power washes over them, and in the distance a red demon flies around Mundus, bright flashes of light as his sword tears through the colossus. “Let’s go.”

Vergil only stares at them, his blood boiling for a fight. His fingers twitch, his hand reaches for the sword that should be at his side. No matter. Vergil takes off, striding towards the battleground, every step more wobbly, as if his legs struggle to respond. He pushes on anyway--and chains jerk him right back, sending him stumbling down. When he turns around, Trish is holding them, the line taunt between them.

“He’s got this, Vergil,” she says. “Don’t make me drag your ass out of here.”

He glares at her as he struggles back to his feet, but she only smirks. His hands wraps around the chain, as if he means to pull back, but even that brief movement drains his remaining strength. Something in him is terribly wrong. He shouldn’t be this _ weak _, this easily tired. Still. He doesn’t want to leave; that would be cowardly.

“Look, I get it, but he’s counting on us to clear the way out. I trust him to do his part; he trusts us to do ours.” She unties the katana at her hip and extends it in the space between them. “This was yours. Promise you won’t rush in, and you can have it.”

Vergil startles at how she says ‘this was yours’--like she is informing him, even though this is knowledge he should’ve had. She can tell, then, that a part of him has been sealed away. Perhaps it’s because she was here before, with him. He wonders what else she knows, what he could learn of himself, remembering her, talking to her. He does want to know himself, even if it scares him.

Then there is the katana, hanging between them, pulsing with faint power he is intimately familiar with. _ The Yamato_, his mind provides, and a quiet pride fills him. He closes the distance and clasps clawed hands around its grip.

Something new clicks into a place, another crack in the ice. He knows its weight and balance, its sharp edges and demonic abilities. He has fought with the Yamato since he was but a child, fought against--

His mind recoils, hardening against the truth there. _ Not now. _

Vergil grips the Yamato tighter, then turns to Trish. His mind buzzes with knowledge he’s not ready to face, pieces of himself and his past he cannot acknowledge so soon. It feels like he had been teetering on the edge, falling even, and they’d caught his hand just in time, before it was too late and those morsels of himself were lost forever. He doesn’t understand what has been saved yet, but he knows he’ll find it, in time--he knows they will help him do so. Trish smiles at him, perhaps sensing his resolve, and they leave, never looking back--trusting Dante to do his part.

###

  
  


Sparda’s power is making him light-headed. Dante has always loved this zone of focus and thrill he reaches when facing difficult challenges, the rush of his own power and skills electrifying him, sharpening every instant into crystal-clear memories. But this is different. In fact, he can barely feel himself through the buzzing of his skin, the split-second instincts, and the mind-boggling speed and strength. Mundus flings boulders of Hell’s blood-red floor at him and he flies straight through, slicing them in half with the Devil Sword Sparda without ever slowing down. He’s a red blur, unfamiliar wings buzzing at his back, granting him unprecedented maneuverability as he darts around Mundus’ marble form, dodging javelins of light and plunging down for a few quick strikes.

This, he knows, is Sparda’s true power. This is the strength Vergil had sought through the Temen-ni-gru, and now Dante is wielding it, using it for its intended purpose: he will kill Mundus, preserving the human realm and saving his brother. Sometimes he’s not sure which is the most important anymore, and he’s glad for the opportunity to do both at once.

Power thrumming through his entire body, Dante dives into the fight--and finds Mundus waiting for him. Lightning bolts slice through the sky, barely missing him (some clipping him briefly, even) and shattering the landscape as they hit the ground and send shards of it flying. He feels the electricity crackle through the very air, his power and the Prince of Darkness’s clashing, and he grins as he dodges a flurry of burning missiles and closes in again. 

Five dark orbs shimmer into existence, and an invisible wall catches Dante. He bounces off it, sudden pain jolting through his body, and Mundus’s deep laugh echoes across Hell. The demon raises a hand, and white beams shoot for Dante. He drops and avoids the four first, twisting and turning, but a fifth catches his wings, burning them.

The sixth is headed straight for his heart.

Instincts kick in, and Dante flings a palm outward. A great ball of flame erupts from it, sizzling the air as it vaporizes the javelin then crashes into the shield, cracking it. Dante can’t help the surprised laughs that escapes him. Holy shit, but that is _ cool_. Didn’t know he could do that, huh! Grinning, his wing already healing, he floats back up and sends a series of fireballs directly into Mundus’ blackened orbs. When the shield shatters, releasing a wave of power, he flies in with the Sparda. His father’s sword slices through marble like butter, removing huge chunks of the body and revealing a shifting mass of molten orange under.

Mundus swats at him (poor dude, treating him like he’s a fly!) and Dante flies back, setting the Sparda on his shoulder briefly.

“How d’ya like the taste of the taint so far, Mister Emperor?”

Dante’s taken a few hits, and he’s starting to feel them even through the rush of Sparda’s power, but it’s nothing compared to what he’s inflicted. Mundus’s left side is gone, the misshapen sludge within half-leaking out of the hole where once he had ribs, and Dante has wrecked his right wing too. He hasn’t reached the three red orbs near his chest yet, but at this rate, it’s just a matter of time. 

Mundus doesn’t seem to realize he’s losing, because he laughs again, and his voice fills Dante’s mind. “Do you think yourself invincible? I see Sparda’s light in your eyes, but you are but a weakling, as easy to crush as the spawn you both pointlessly cling to.”

The spawn--_Nero? _

Shock slams into Dante, with fear quick at his heels. Because if Mundus knows about Nero, if he understands enough to call him a spawn, to speak of crushing him--

Five javelins of light hit Dante in rapid succession, two plunging through his chest, one in his leg, and the last pair through his wings. He barely clings to the Sparda as he plummets down, and Mundus’s great fist sends him flying for the ground even faster. Dante smashes into it, creating his own crater, and pain reverberates through his body. His devil form sizzles out and suddenly he can feel every inch of his body burning, thumping in rhythm with his heart.

Mundus laughs again, a deep cavernous sound Dante is quickly learning to hate. He’s never been one for bitter anger, but this demon killed his mother, took his brother away from him, unravelling him until he didn’t even remember his twin, and now… now he’s threatening the pure child who has blessed the last two years of their lives. Mundus is everything Dante hates, everything wrong with demons and power and this fucked up world, and he’s _ winning. _

“C’mon, pops,” he mutters. “Just. Back me up here.”

Three red orbs hover above him, embedded in Mundus’s chest. Energy gather around them, pure white beams ready to finish him off. Dante’s fingers curl around the Sparda’s handle as Mundus’s marble face appears. He thinks of Vergil, his skin paler than Nero’s pure-white hair, blue lines crawling over half of his face, one eye red and almost empty. Thinks of the blank look he gave Dante, the absolute absence of recognition. Thinks of his voice, cracked from screams and disuse both, deep and raspy and oh-so-weak, yet full of longing as he asked about Nero. Vergil isn’t gone. He’s in there, under all that armour, clinging to memories of his son, and Dante _ will _see them reunited.

He is a Son of Sparda. In him flows his father’s blood, his soul, and now, through the sword, his power. Mundus’s got nothing on him.

Dante draws upon the Sparda as the white beams jolt downward, pushing all of his anger and resolve into one last move. The sword thrums with life again, but this time his skin and body don’t change; his mind does. It expands, a new understanding of the world unfolding before him, and suddenly Dante _ gets it_, how Vergil seems to distort time and space around him, landing a dozen cuts before any adversary can move--he sees it, and reaches for it, and the beams hover midair.

Dante flies off the ground, his regular wings pushing him up as he launches himself towards Mundus, the Devil Sword Sparda in hand. Time has stopped, but it drains him to hold everything still, so he doesn’t waste a second: he swings the mighty blade through Mundus’s eyes, twice for each of them, gritting his teeth against the painful energy running up the sword and into his arms with every strike. 

Mundus’s screech of pain as Dante releases the time snap is worth every moment of burning agony. Sparks fly out of the balls of energy, marble explodes outward, and suddenly the orange sludge inside the demon’s body leaks from several great cuts. Dante lands heavily on his feet, leaning hard on the Sparda not to collapse, and he watches with grim satisfaction as the precious marble statue dissolves away, leaving a writhing blob of demonic energy and magma that already sputters and diminishes in size.

“No--” Mundus’s voice has lost its godlike quality, too. Dante snorts at the pathetic edge to it, the panic. “By a human? A wretched--I… no! If you think you’ll escape Hell… _ Never_. This will be your tomb, Son of Sparda!”

“Like I haven’t heard that one before,” Dante retorts. He stomps to Mundus’s true form, the shifting pile of orange and red magma once contained in the statue. The demon sends a flurry of red javelins his way once more, but Dante never slows down. He deflects half with the Sparda itself, and red blades of his own making appear to catch the others, summoned by instinct. His father’s power, feeding him still as he moves for the finishing blow. “Just get lost already.”

He flicks his grip on the Sparda and throws it in the middle of the pile. Mundus’s power coalesces briefly around the blade, then it explodes outward, catching Dante’s fully in the chest and sending him flying back. He lands hard on the ground and rolls over a few feet before stopping on his back, eyes set against the greyish sky of the demon world, his bleeding body struggling to repair itself.

For a time, the pain is so intense he can only blink at the swirling red-grey clouds above. It’s over, he thinks. He’s done it, and Vergil is with Trish, no doubt already out of Hell. The ground under him begins to shake, and he can hear his twin in his mind. 

_ The portal to the human world is closing, Dante. _

The amulets haven’t been separated. They’re both in the Sparda. But this portal is Mundus’s, and Mundus is gone. Dante’s job is done and all he wants is his well earned nap.

Not here, though. It takes a while for his brain to catch up (for it to overcome the pain and the temptation of apathy), but Dante knows he needs to move. He wants to be with his family, to be there for Vergil while he recovers (he was off in a bad way, that much was obvious), to see Nero’s smile when he sees his dad again. So he lumbers up to his feet, picks up the Sparda from the ground (damn, but the sword feels heavy now), and turns towards the portal.

They have quite a ways to go before they’re home yet, but the worst is finally behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, sign me up for "writing that Mundus fight was satisfying as fuck to write".
> 
> Vergil is back with the group!!


	11. Twin Names

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Vergil struggles with himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick note, but if Vergil's memories seem to change between this chapter and the previous one, or in any of the future ones, know that it's intentional. XD I didn't forget what I'd had him remember, he's just having a really hard time. :]

_ Arkham insists that I, the Son of Sparda, must grant to these demons that which Father stripped away. According to him, a demon’s name shapes everything, from their power to their physical form. Without it, they are nothing. I have never guarded mine, yet it makes me wonder… does human blood mingle this? How much of my power is tied within “Vergil”? Perhaps it is a question to which I’d best never find an answer. _

When he steps through the portal, strength floods back into him and his mind calms. He recenters himself, pushing aside memories, burying them deep. They do not matter. He doesn't need them, not here. This, he knows, is the realm he's meant to fight on behalf of his master. The armour doesn't feel natural on him and he thinks he's left the demon world too early, that it is not quite ready for him to put to the test, but Trish is with him, and he trusts her.

They're going home. To Nero. 

That kernel of truth slips into his mind again, floating through his mental barriers as if they're nothing, refusing to be contained or forgotten. He stops and turns back to stare at the shimmering red portal. There's someone there… something pressing at the edges of his mind, something he's locked away again. But he must have done that for a reason, no? 

"He'll be fine," Trish says. “We need to focus on our task and clear the way.”

He acknowledges her word with a nod yet doesn’t move. Part of him wants to respond to that tug inside of him, to walk back into the portal and find what he’s set aside once more. His gaze slides to the katana in his clawed gauntlet and he closes his eyes, reaching for it and allowing its presence to guide him. He dislikes these gaping holes in his memory and sense of self, yet it is somewhat comforting not to think--to only obey, unquestioningly, and kill at someone else’s command.

And he is eager to kill, he finds. It has been too long since he last battled--in fact, he does not remember when was the last time. So when Trish gestures for him to follow, he lets his renewed strength carry him and twirls the blade in his hand. The chains trail on the ground with every step like a too-long cape. They climb out of a destroyed chamber, into the corridors of a strange castle, the only sounds his greaves on stone floor and the metal links of his chains rattling behind. The air smells so different here, full of water and salt, and he’s surprised by how much he notices the change and how much he loves it. Trish is talking to him, and he makes an effort to listen.

“--the two of you are _ so _different. I’d say you should have warned me, but I never asked, did I?”

She looks over her shoulder, as if waiting for a response, and he tilts his head to the side. _ Two of us. _He’s not sure what she means, but it stirs a quiet warmth within him.

“It used to be, I wouldn’t have given either of you a chance.” They reach the last steps of the wide staircase they’ve been climbing and a whole section of it is gone, leaving only a gaping hole. Trish leaps over it without even pausing. “But I’m starting to see it--what’s so special about the Sons of Sparda. It’s not your power. It’s the way you love.”

He stops on the other side of the hole and stares at her, remembrance shocking him. _ Vergil, Son of Sparda_. She’d offered him that only moments ago, and already, he had forgotten it, wilfully locked it away. The pounding in his head begs him to stop thinking about it again, to set it aside, but he doesn’t want to. This is important. He knows it is. He shakes his head, trying to clear the ache building, and Trish laughs.

“You don’t have to agree, Vergil. I’ve seen you talk about your son and I know I’m right.”

His son. His heart stammers and he fights the way his lungs constrict at the thought. He has a son. He loves his son. Vergil clings to these truths, sensing how easy it might be for them to fall away from his conscious mind, how easy it would be to lose them.

“Nero…” 

The word is raw through his throat, more of a growl than anything else. He thinks of round cheeks and bright blue eyes, and it calms him.

“That Nero, yeah! Human children are so strange.” She gestures for him to jump. “Now, c’mon. He’s waiting for you.”

That feels… off. Nero is not waiting for him: he is waiting for his father--for this Vergil. And he knows that _ is _ him, after a fashion, yet the man is a stranger, a piece of his past he doesn’t recognize. Still, he longs to see the child again, to learn why even remembering his face fills him with such peace it aches.

He jumps, chains falling as he crosses the gap with surprising ease, then strides away. He can hear the _ clank _ of every link coming over the ledge, a staccato marking his progress as he gets farther and farther away from the portal to the demon world and closer to Nero.

They emerge into a courtyard and the change in light surprises him. Clouds mar the nightsky, yet the starlight peeks in between their outstretched fingers, harsh against his eyes. He hisses and raises a hand to protect himself--then startles as large wings temporarily block them out. 

"Well, well! Looks like our lil' princess got rescued _ and _found herself some brand new armour!”

Griffon. 

The name comes unbidden out of his memories and alongside it is a promise: that he would remember it, when the time came to cut the bird into ribbons. His hand falls to the grip of his sword--to the Yamato--and he tracks the demon across the sky with a low growl.

"Heard ya got yourself a new name, too!" Griffon snapped his wings out and brought himself to a stop. "Nelo Angelo. How… unoriginal."

_ Nelo Angelo. _ The name slams into him and he stumbles back a step. That's right. That's the name his master bestowed him. He is Mundus’s knight, his general. He fights on his behalf.

"Vergil?"

Trish was… talking to him. Pain split his head as he absorbed her words, the name _ she _offered him. Vergil, Son of Sparda. That's him, too. But he knows he cannot be both Nelo Angelo and Vergil, knows deep down that they're not compatible. His hands reach for his head as he finds himself wishing for a helmet to soothe the pain and quiet down his thoughts. Neither names feel right, and he can’t allow himself to dwell on what this means for him, not when the very act hurts so much.. 

But there’s at least one truth he’s certain of: he’s a powerful fighter and he has promised death to this demon bird.

Griffon cackles at the sight of his stumble, and a bolt of lightning crashes a few feet in front of them--a warning. “You thinkin’ of leaving us so soon, Princess?”

Electricity courses around Trish’s forearms and she replies to Griffon’s taunt with a jolt of her own, barely missing his wings. “You don’t have what it takes to stop us, feather-brain. It’s over.”

“Aw, Mundus’s little doll thinks I’m alone.”

His words are followed by a great roar, and a panther leaps down from the rooftops. Its form changes as it moves, transforming into seven black spikes and forcing Trish and himself to jump back, away from the deadly stabs of its body. Griffon immediately swoops in, raining sparks on them, and in the immediacy of the fight, his instincts take over.

The panther is an ever-changing opponent, unpredictable in its forms--deadly wheel of spikes one moment, monstrous jaws another--but he catches the appendages with his sword with ease, deflecting the brunt of the attacks and allowing his armour to catch the rest. He feels more powerful with every blow, as if the fight itself fuels him, and a slow smile stretches his dry lips as he increasingly overtakes the panther. His sword slices through its flank and the demon roars as it leaps away, sliding on its hind legs upon landing. He steps forward, ready to press the assault, when a crackling, feather body smashes into him.

Griffon’s gigantic mass sends him flying, but his body quickly jerks to a stop as something yanks the chains attached to it. He’s lifted off the ground, large talons holding his chain, and three bolts of lightning fly past him--Trish’s counterattacks, leaving searing marks into Griffon’s flesh. 

“Sorry, Princess, but no one touches my kitty!”

“Vergil!” 

Trish’s knees bend, and it’s obvious she’s about to leap after him. He’s seen her strength and knows she could so he stops her with a raised palm, gesturing at the panther. It’s already stalking towards her despite its bleeding flank. She sets a hand on her hip and huffs.

“Already giving orders, huh?” she calls. “But sure, I’ll take care of Shadow.”

The castle ground shakes under their feet, a great rumble traversing the air, and Trish is forced to step back to catch her balance. Shadow uses the opportunity to leap forward. She deflects the pounce with a bolt of lightning, forcing the great feline to twist aside. It still lashes out, but Trish catches one of the appendages bare-handed and spins it around--clearly, she has things well in hand despite the increasingly unstable ground. Nelo Angelo leaves her to her devices and focuses on his own target.

Griffon has flown upward, out of Trish’s eventual reach, cackling as he takes to the sky. With a growl, he twists his body and grips the chains at his back. He can feel the tug of it in his armour, and through the demonic metal, into his flesh. He pulls himself up, one link at a time, climbing without ever letting go of his sword. Griffon must feel the jerking movement because he sends lightning coursing down the chain, straight into Nelo Angelo’s body. Sparks fly before his eyes at the sudden pain, and he never sees the wall coming as the demon bird dives down and flies him directly into it.

The shock reverberates through his body, yet it feels cushioned by his armour, isolated, unimportant. His vision clears quickly, his body spins so his feet find purchase in the wall, and he pushes himself off, every ounce of strength going into the jump as he swings himself from his chain in a wide arc that brings him above Griffon, the katana slicing through the bird’s wings on his way. 

Griffon squawks, dips and smashes into the wall, his claws leaving great gouges as they plunge towards the ground--none of which stops him from zapping Nelo Angelo again, knocking him off. They both hit the ground hard, the castle’s walls crumbling upon them. Out of breath, Nelo barely rolls out of a boulder’s path, then up on his feet. He backs away, preparing himself for another go, and his back collides with Trish. They’ve found each other at the center of the courtyard. Shadow growls and Griffon dusts himself off, but neither seems ready to leap back in.

A great shockwave passes through all four of them. He doesn’t understand what causes it, only that a fundamental truth about himself has changed--like a pressure lifting off his chest and mind. The change is brutal, staggering, and his surprise is reflected in Griffon’s shocked ruffling of his wings.

“Wha--That ain’t possible!”

Shadow answers him with a low growl. Tiny spikes ripple across his skin endlessly, as if it doesn’t know which shape to adopt. A sharp, disbelieving exclamation escapes Trish.

“He really did it,” she says, and the castle begins to crack in reply. They watch an enormous boulder smash into the ground, none of them talking. “We’re free.”

He feels… bereft, torn from his purpose and lacking direction. Something has been ripped from all four of them. Griffon hops up, and his head cocks to the side. For the first time, there’s hesitation in his voice. 

“Free?”

He understands Griffon’s confusion all too well, yet in the end it makes no difference, not to him. He promised death and intends to keep his word. He sprints forward, fast despite the heaving, cracking floor, almost gliding across the ground. The Yamato comes up in a powerful and decisive cut--

And is stopped by another sword, large and curved and fleshy. He's barely had time to register the red blur before the parry, and now he finds a man blocking his path, starlight shining in his white hair, grinning as their blades stay locked together. He blinks, and rain drenches both of them, plastering their hair onto their heads in identical ways. He can feel it trickling down his neck, drenching his coat, and he knows it's impossible--he is wearing armour, dark and heavy and powerful, not the blue coat he had come to think of as his signature. He squeezes his eyes shut and stumbles back, and the man's name returns.

Dante.

Dante matters to Vergil. He might matter to him, too, if he could remember why. The attempt makes his head pound, but he goes seeking an answer in his memories, nonetheless, through the cracks of an icy lake.

He finds Dante drenched from the rain atop a tower, guns in hand, preparing to fight; finds him with Nero on his shoulders, grinning widely or in his arms, burning hot from fever as they tried to feed him; finds him singing at the top of his lungs, standing on his couch, wearing a wine red turtleneck. He finds him long before that, too, another child playing with him. His brother, his twin.

The lake is cracking, fissures spreading out from under his feet, and he knows he'll drown if he falls in, so he retreats.

Dante gives a little shove on his katana, pushing him back and snapping his attention back to the present. Vergil lowers the Yamato and stares at his brother. He already feels… different. The lancing pain hasn’t left his skull, yet he feels more solid, more coherent within himself. Confident he isn’t going to be attacked, Dante sets the broad sword on his shoulder and turns back towards Griffon.

“Hey, birdie! Ya mind givin’ us a lift?”

“A lift? A lift!” Griffon takes off, wind blowing from his wings across the courtyard as he cackles. “Ya think I’m some sorta vulgar mount or what?”

Dante responds with a casual shrug, but the moment he’s finished his movement, immense power radiates out of him. Wings sprout out of his back as he leaps up, driving his sommersault higher and faster than would’ve otherwise been possible. He lands on Griffon’s neck and grabs the feathers there, grinning. “Depends on you. Fact is, I just turned your boss into dust. Ya wanna join him, be my guest, but we gotta get off this crumblin’ piece of castle island and home fast, you see, so I’m feelin’ generous. Help us out, little chickie, and I’ll call it square despite your role in this.”

“My--you’re--” Griffon sputters for a moment, but he does not zap Dante, and that is a sign in and off itself. Instead, he lands back in the courtyard and ruffles his wings in a clear show of pride. “I can feel Sparda’s power in you, demon boy. Ya really offed Mundus?”

Vergil’s entire body is vibrating with tension. He doesn’t think he wants an answer to that question. Mundus is his master, his creator. If anyone killed him, he should--no. No, wait, that’s wrong. Can Mundus be his creator, if he’s a Son of Sparda? His hands curl into fists and he brings one to his forehead, as if pressing hard enough could quell the burning pain in his mind. His ears are ringing so hard it garbles Dante’s answer, but Griffon’s grating voice gets through.

“I don’t think I’ve made a decision for myself like that in centuries! Hey, kitty, what d’ya say we help out these weaklings? As a favour, of course! Not a chance in hell you’d beat the two of us.” 

“No chance of it happening if you don’t make me try,” Dante pats the gigantic head casually and they can all hear Griffon’s huff. Ripples of electricity course over his feathers, but he doesn’t counter, only lowers his body.

“C’mon. Everyone on the Griff Express before I change my mind!”

Trish laughs and jumps up without any hesitation, placing herself in front of Dante. “You’ll see, Griffon, free will’s about the best gift you can get.”

Shadow lets out a low growl but wraps herself around Griffon’s legs, a dark cylinder clinging there, almost foreboding. Soon, he is the only left behind. Castle walls crumble around him, yet he cannot bring his feet to move. He had promised Griffon death, yet Dante had stopped him, made him break his word. It feels wrong, to accept this help--to join any and all of them. He should be fighting. He was meant to be a weapon.

“Vergil.” 

There’s a plea in the way Dante says the name--his name. He turns and meets clear blue eyes, sees worry in them that never reaches his easy grin. Dante gestures to the room behind himself. 

“Nero’s home.”

The reminder gets him moving--a slow stride at first, then a quick run. There’s no more hesitation when he jumps up, joining Dante on Griffon’s back, nothing but the pounding of his heart and that ever-clear certitude: he belongs with Nero. He has lost so much of himself, of what _ being _ even means, yet he knows he will never forget that, at least. It will guide him home, a beacon in the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No random planes to escape Mallet Island this time around, just a DMC1-sized bird friend. XD


	12. Theory and Practice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lady is stuck on babysitting duty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Journal entry might be a little confusing if you’ve read Chapter 3 *after* November started, which will be most of you. I went back and edited it, and it’s now this: 
> 
> _I thought the train would grant me the respite needed. It’s in movement, harder to track than when I hide in a deserted attic or try to rent a room. It’s been a week now, and if I’ve slept more than thirty minutes at a time since they first found me, I don’t remember. They have a new type of demon--a six-winged moth creature. It rubs its antenna over everything I touched; I’m sure it can smell me, track me. It’s never alone, either, and the two handlers on its back are devious, dangerous enemies. Or maybe exhaustion has made me sloppy. I have been on my own for seven years, and it has never been this bad. I need rest. I need to kill this tracking demon. I need to survive._
> 
> So now it’ll make sense. Sorry for this! This is why huge buffers are awesome; I can edit these things in without anyone ever noticing haha.]

_The demon moth itself is not dangerous. It does not see, can only track a single scent. Though scent is not the right word for it; you cannot fool it through perfume or less savory odours. It still tracks its prey, as if it detected its very soul. But on its own, it has no other senses. The handler guides it. They have been attached like symbiotic life forms. Once you cut it off, the demonic moth turns blind to anything but the scent it tracks. _

_Together, they can be tricky, but if they had not been surrounded by more dangerous demons, it would not have been such an issue. The handler is not dangerous. Its only real defense are the spines on its back, filled with dangerous poison. One grazed me and numbed my arm for several minutes. I suspect I would have been entirely paralyzed if not for my natural healing. Regardless, they are dead now, and I can finally sleep._

Dante had been gone for exactly two minutes when it hit Lady that he’d left her with babysitting duties without even asking for permission. Nero stayed quiet under her hands, perhaps just as stunned as her. Less than an hour ago they’d been preparing to blow the candles on his pufferfish cake, with no true lead towards Vergil except for some vague clue about the Yamato’s powers, and now Dante had ditched them both to go rescue his twin, a highly-suspicious demon on his heels.

She hated every minute of it, including the growing hope in her chest. Because at the end of the day, Dante was right: if this bitch had Vergil’s amulet, then she knew where to find him. Didn’t mean she was leading Dante to the right place at all, but he could handle himself. He could take her, and take Mundus. She’d seen the look in his eyes when he’d picked up Force Edge; he’d had the same after beating her in the Temen-ni-gru, when he’d promised to make things right for her. That, more than anything, had convinced her to trust him alone with this mission too.

Which didn’t mean she trusted herself with the whole ‘take care of Nero’ mission _at all_. She squeezed his tiny shoulders and forced some levity in her tone.

“Guess it’s just you and I for a few days, huh?”

Nero craned his neck to look at her, his lips pressed into a thin line. It felt like he searched her face for reassurance, so she forced an awkward smile. Nero brought his black marker up, gnawing at its top, then finally asked the question on his mind. "Are you my Ma' now?"

A breathy, panicked chuckle escaped Lady. "N-no, Nero. They'll be back. Hunting bad demons and saving people is what your zio does."

Nero sniffed. "He… He really is coming back?"

"He better." She did not want to entertain any other option. Lady ran her fingers through Nero's hair. "Until then, think of it as a vacation with your way cooler aunt."

Nero spun around and beamed at her. "The Lady è la mia zia!" he declared, and he threw himself into her legs, wrapping them into a tight hug.

Lady froze, heat climbing to her cheeks. Half of her figured the kid had no right to treat her like family, and the other half knew they'd all been doing it since their first Christmas. She'd helped take care of Nero in countless ways since Vergil had vanished, and now they'd dumped him on her for temporary babysitting duties. It'd all go up on Vergil's tab, of course, but maybe she could accept a title to go with all the hard work.

“You want to read me a story while I clean?” she asked. “I heard you had new ones from the library.”

Nero set off immediately, running upstairs to grab his book. Lady managed to clean most of the kitchens while he struggled with this new story, and eventually the day’s exhaustion sank in and she helped him into bed, silently thanking Dante’s numerous rants about all the things he needed to do with Nero before the kid was ready to actually sleep for providing her with some guidelines. Once he’d drifted off, she picked up the phone and called Morrison to bring him up to date and let him know she and Dante wouldn’t be taking jobs for the next week.

She opted to stay at the Devil May Cry, where all of Nero’s toys and clothes were, so the first thing they did together the following morning was to get new supplies at Lady’s flat and the grocery. Nero had grown moody as soon as he placed the first mark on his pizza box, so she allowed him to pick two things he loved to eat to cheer him up. Being stuck in Dante’s dirty home sucked, but she wound up fixing all the little things about it that bothered her every time she visited: the creaking door, the broken lightbulb, the tears in his too worn-down couch pillows, and so on. She let Nero help, explaining what she did the way she’d so often glimpsed Vergil do, especially with food. More shit she ought to charge Dante with, really.

Overall, things were going well. She’d gotten into a few pointless arguments with Nero, but nothing that left him yelling endlessly. If anything, his quiet behaviour worried her. It’d go away when Dante and Vergil returned, though, so she tried to mostly ignore it. It wasn’t until the third day that a disturbing thought snaked its way into Lady’s mind.

In the flurry of Dante’s departure, she hadn’t considered the full implications of Trish’s presence in the shop, of how she’d known about Nero, yet the more she thought about it… Mundus’s hordes had known where to find Vergil eight months ago. This chick had tracked down Dante, too, and from the sound of it they’d been preparing for him. What if they’d already known about Nero _and _about this place? What if that info had been available to her--and to others--from the start? Fuck, but the Devil May Cry might just be the least safe place to stay with Nero. From what little Vergil had told her after they’d fought Phantom together and from the diary notes he’d scattered through his demon bestiary, Lady had surmised one thing about Mundus: he wasn’t the type to stop until the whole family was eradicated. If he learned of Nero’s existence, he would come for him, too.

She had promised Vergil he could rely on her and Dante to protect the kid. _That’s what business partners are for_, she’d said, and she had a professional reputation to uphold.

Lady tried to let the thought rest and reconsider it out of her initial jolt of fear, but with every passing hour, her unease increased. She didn’t like this, and she’d never been one to doubt her instincts. By late afternoon, she had made her decision to move back to her place.

Nero did not like the idea.

“Zio Dante said to wait!” He pointed at the cardboard box with three marks, fierce determination sharpening his round face into an expression she’d seen all too often on his dad. “It is not ten days.”

“He never said we had to be here. I’ll leave him a note so he can find us, all right?”

Nero huffed and crossed his arms. “I don’t wanna!”

Damnit, she didn’t want to get into a fight with Nero. Arguing with this kid never got Dante anywhere, either. “I’m surprised! I thought you’d love to see where I live. We won’t be gone long, Nero. Just like camping.”

“We… we’re not leaving… for good?”

Oh. _Of course _he’d worry about that. Damn, life had really fucked around with this kid, if he assumed he’d never have a stable family and home. The last eight months hadn’t helped, for sure. “No. We’ll pack a few things, and I’ll show you all the cool things at my place while Zio Dante is gone. It’ll be fun.”

None of the cool things should actually be placed in a child’s hands, but Lady would deal with the particular problem of guns everywhere once they got there. At least the most dangerous stuff stayed in a locker, and Nero had seen the Kalina Ann so much he wasn’t impressed with it anymore. She’d been placing it at the door for months without him ever touching it.

“O-okay,” Nero mumbled, sounding every bit like he didn’t believe her. He still went up to the desk and grabbed the top of the pizza box and his black marker. “We take this.”

“Absolutely.”

They set to pack Nero’s many belongings, aiming to fit everything necessary into two packs: one large for Lady, with every type of clothes he could need, from sweaters to socks including night diapers, and another, smaller one for Nero, where he dutifully stuffed his emergency hygiene tools (including his special shampoo), a few toys and his favourite squid plush, and his black marker. It didn’t take that long, all things considered, and Lady hoped Dante would respect his 10-day-limit, because she had brought only the strict necessary for a week.

Once they had everything, Lady helped Nero into his now-clearly-too-small shark snowsuit, slipped a loose winter coat and her fur-lined red boots on, then slung the Kalina Ann over her shoulder. She was reaching for the door when Nero grabbed her sleeve and tugged it.

“Miss Zia Lady,” he started. “How do you know bad demons from good demons?”

“Assume all demons are bad unless they are your zio and your da’.” And they were half-human, and even so, Nero’s dad had caused more deaths than she cared to think about.

His eyes widened and his grip tightened, small fingers curling into the fabric of her coat. He stepped closer to her, as if seeking protection, and her heart hammered. She didn’t like his reaction one bit.

“I-I think I forgot my book, but…”

She couldn’t wait to be out of this place now, but Lady held back her sigh. “Ya know where it is?” she asked, and when Nero nodded, she gestured for the stairs. “Let’s get it, then.”

“B-but…” Nero trailed off and headed for the stairs, never letting go of her sleeve. He stopped at the top, his frown deepening. “Z-Zia Lady… the demons are very close now.”

Horror jolted through Lady at his quiet affirmation. Nero had been able to sense his family’s demonic auras when they’d shifted into their devil trigger, on the first night she’d met him, and she understood what it meant _now _for him to declare demons were close.

Lightbulbs exploded across the shop, throwing them into darkness, and a winged demon crashed through the window at the end of the second floor’s corridor.

Lady’s instincts kicked in. She dropped to her knees, pulling Nero close to her as she reached for the Kalina Ann and brought it on her shoulder. She thanked her drop of good luck in this ocean of shitty one for their timing--they were both dressed up, bags on their shoulders, ready to leave.

“Hold on tight, Nero!”

He hid his face in her neck and threw his arms around her neck. She wrapped her own arm around his body, reaching for the bayonet’s heavy trigger while keeping him close. Sharp claws glinted in the moonlight as the vulture-like demon plunged for them. She let loose and her blade pierced through the body, sending rotting feathers flying in a cloud as the vulture flew back out, screeching. The bayonet thunked on the half-collapsed roof of the nearby building, digging in solidly. She gave it a quick pull, testing the catch while the vulture-demon ashed off, then stood up and lifted Nero with her. He instinctively wrapped his legs around her waist, holding tighter.

“Don’t move your head, kid,” she said.

This was the first time Lady ran from demons and she hated it, but she didn’t have most of her arsenal on her, and she could hear the scuttling and slithering of more creatures from the first floor. A glance back revealed a chitinous millipede already rushing up the stairs and at them. Last time, Mundus’s horde had been powerful enough to overwhelm Vergil. She didn’t like her chances, alone and ill-equipped. These demons were lucky they got to live.

She hit the trigger again, and the rope wound back, pulling them along. Nero muffled a scream in her neck as they crashed through the window, breaking off the glass still untouched by the vulture. One shard cut through her arm and she gritted her teeth at the flare of pain, twisting her body so her legs hit the roof first. She freed her bayonet with a practiced movement and hit the ground running, the slippery tiles threatening to trip her as she balanced the unwieldy weight of Nero up front, their two backpacks, and the Kalina Ann now returned on her back.

Lady glanced back as she reached the edge of the roof, counting the demons emerging from the Devil May Cry’s windows and doors--at least a dozen visible now, mostly insectoids, but above floated a more worrisome foe. Three pairs of wings flared out from behind a cylindrical body, swirling motifs moving on them like some many dark strands. Two fluffy antenna sprouted on its head, questing into the open air, and a humanoid-shaped demon clung to its back, chitin claws embedded into the demon’s body. Fragments of notes Vergil had taken about a tracking moth demon and its crafty handlers floated through her mind and she cursed. She couldn’t let this thing alive and head home. And there were so many demons, the smallest one might get past her if she told Nero to run ahead.

It looked like she’d be fighting after all. At least she had high ground for now. Lady set Nero down and handed him both backpacks.

“All right, kid. You hold onto this, and you stay here.”

She stepped forward, putting a secure distance between them so he wouldn’t get caught in the heat, then slammed her rocket launcher to the ground, pulling two quick levers to slide the homing mini-missiles into their chambers. The quick scuttling of demonic feet grew louder, and Lady counted up to three as they climbed up the walls and towards their roof. The moment the first bulbous head came into sight, she launched her array of missiles and lit up the sky.

Nero gasped at the spread of light, as if the sudden shower of demonic flesh, shells, and blood didn’t bother him in the slightest. Lady couldn’t help her smile. Sure, it wasn’t good news that the kid had already grown used to this kinda shit, but also, she wouldn’t be traumatizing him any more than he was, right? Cause with the whole second wave of demons climbing the wall, she needed that sort of silver lining. She ran to the edge, her single pistol in hand, and put several bullets in the closest demons. They fell down, knocking off others of their kind and giving Lady an opening to focus on the moth.

The disgusting things’ antenna now both pointed in their direction--at Nero, she suspected. She scowled at it, set her rocket launcher on her shoulders, and spread her feet for balance as the shot charged. If she could nail it with a missile… Lady aimed her shot, breathed in deeply, and sent the first rocket flying, bracing herself after the Kalina Ann’s knockback. It flew through the air, whistling, yet as it neared, the demonic bug on the moth’s back dug its claws deeper in one of its sides, pushing it to veer left.

_The handler guides it. They have been attached, like symbiotic life forms. Once you cut it off, the demonic moth turns blind to anything but the scent it tracks._

That was it! Vergil gave her everything she needed to know when he’d documented this shithead moth. Lady grinned as she hit the lever unhooking her bayonet from the wire, clipping it under the Kalina Ann for melee instead, then aimed again. She sent the slim wire flying towards the moth creature as it dove in her direction, and it pierced a wing before wrapping around the body. Lady glanced back at Nero briefly--still safe, clutching the backpacks and staring at her. She wouldn’t have long before she needed to eliminate demons still climbing towards him.

No point dawdling, then--time to wreck a moth and its riding companion! Lady zipped through the air towards it, her weight dragging the moth downward to some extent. It tilted back up, changing course at its handler’s signal, and she flew after them, gaining speed as her wire became ever shorter. She secured her grip on the Kalina Ann, lining up the bayonet--and when she reached the moth, it plunged deep into the handler. She hooked one boot under one of its legs firmly fused with the squishy moth body under, securing her own footing, then she ripped the bayonet out for maximum damage. The creature screeched as its black blood splurged, then tiny spikes appeared all along its back.

_Its only real defense are the spines on its back, filled with dangerous poison. One grazed me and numbed my arm for several minutes. I suspect I would have been entirely paralyzed if not for my natural healing._

“Fuck.”

She flung herself back, and the spikes flew less than an inch from her chin and passed her. Lady arched her body and held onto the Kalina Ann, allowing the wire to loosen until she hit the ground hard, her knees buckling on impact. She’d landed in the street between the Devil May Cry and Nero’s roof, and demons already rushed towards her. Lady wished she had a few grenades to gift them, but instead she triggered the wire again, flying up as she shot the swarm below then recharged the gun.

This time, she arrived from below the moth, and her bayonet slashed through its wings. She landed with her legs on each side of its fuzzy body, facing the handler. Lady pressed the barrel on its ugly face and emptied a whole clip into it. As it started ashing off, she planted her heels into the hole where its claws had fused with the moth, kicking it hard. The flying demon plunged down, responding to her command and crashing on the roof. Lady wasted no time plunging the bayonet in its body and slashing it from top to bottom. Black blood flew into her face, and she wiped it out with a grimace before looking up.

Nero had lifted the backpacks and used them to hide himself as best he could, stuffing his face into the larger one. He was trembling, all traces of marvel at the lightshow she’d put up earlier gone. Now they could run, though. Lady flipped the Kalina Ann and sent one last salvo of mini missiles flying, allowing them to pick their own target as she ran back to Nero. They exploded while she slung the heavy pack on her back once more then lifted the kid up.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

Nero’s only reply was a tiny nod. He wrapped his arms around her neck once more, clinging to her as she pressed one hand on his back.

“We’re in the clear now. Hang on tight and we’ll leave the demons far behind.”

She didn’t want to know how many still lived. It wasn’t in her habit to let that happen, but they’d get swarmed if she tried to take them all on, and she had no guarantee there wouldn’t be more coming. They needed to get out while the tracker was dead, and hopefully her trail would grow cold before another one emerged from Hell.

Lady used the Kalina Ann to flee through the city quickly, and once the demons had been left far behind, she grabbed her phone and hit up Morrison for an emergency lift, providing him with coordinates a fair distance from the Devil May Cry.

###

Morrison complained as soon as they hopped in--about his dinner plans getting interrupted, the blood on his brand new car seats, his being mistaken for a taxi, and so on--but once Lady told him to put any cleaning bills on Dante's tab, he mellowed back out to regular Morrison grumpiness. Nero clung to Lady the whole ride, refusing to utter a word, and she couldn't wait to be home alone with the boy.

As soon as she slammed the door shut behind her, she set him down (damn he was getting heavy), set the Kalina Ann down and chucked her bloodied coat off, peeled the pack off Nero's back, then nudged him closer. She didn't know much about kids, but she knew Nero well enough to understand he was a hugger.

"Come here," she said, and he threw himself into her arms.

Nero held on tight, whole body shudders coursing through him as he began crying. Tears rolled down his cheeks and every time he started a sentence, sobs choked out the rest of his words. What little he managed had all been in italian anyway, so Lady did all she could think to do: she held on and rubbed his back awkwardly and let him pour it all out.

They still had several days together, but this flat would be easier to defend. It had only one large room, from which she could see all but the washroom's window, allowing her to cover all the entry points. Lady planned out which she'd barricade while Nero cried into her arms, stomping down on her guilt as she shifted her attention away from him.

She'd been lucky to escape that fight with nothing but the cut from the window glass. Without her full arsenal, she felt vulnerable. The Kalina Ann could get her out of most pickles, but she shouldn’t battle any horde strong enough to defeat Vergil without all of her options. Hopefully they hadn’t sent anything of that level after a five-year-old, but who knew if demons even considered these things? All she had as proof this group might’ve been weaker is that she hadn’t caught sight of either the bird or shapeshifting demon Nero had drawn over and over.

Nero eventually pulled away, sniffling loudly, his entire face red and puffy. He bit his lower lip and stared at his feet, leaving her with the distinct impression he wanted to speak but didn’t dare. Last time he’d hesitated, demons had come crashing through the window.

“Is there more of them? Can you sense any?”

Nero shook his head and rubbed his eyes. “Ho fame.”

Damn. She couldn’t remember when the kid had last switched to Italian before today. He didn’t do that to Dante anymore, but he also hadn’t gone through a demon attack with his uncle. High emotions tended to muddle his English, Vergil had said, so she’d have to try and meet him halfway. Thankfully, she thought she knew what this word was.

“Fame’s hungry, isn’t it?” she asked. Nero nodded and she ruffled his hair. “Let’s get cooking, then. And if you sense anything like a demon, you tell me, all right? I’ll keep you safe.”

He once more agreed through a nod, so she picked his hand and led him to the kitchens, so he could help her with dinner. He'd need plenty of distractions in the coming days, and while Lady didn’t doubt her ability to keep demons at bay from a defensible position if necessary, she feared the delicate task of occupying Nero and keeping him happy despite the obvious danger. She didn’t trust his outwardly calm exterior--and indeed, he refused to go to sleep the very first night, arguing about demons and danger and screaming that he didn’t want to and he couldn’t and he hated her place (good to know his English had mostly come back in time for that).

Since sleep wasn’t the kind of shit she could force on him, Lady gave up quickly. She retrieved a second set of bedding and instead of wasting energy arguing with the kid, she grabbed the most child friendly book she could from her shelf (a somewhat rough story about a girl who could speak to ghosts in an apocalyptical fantasy wasteland and tried to help one find his best friend) wrapped them both in thick blankets and began a new story with Nero, conveniently skipping over the too-adult parts of it. They read late into the night, a shotgun and pairs of pistols at the ready in case of an emergency, and eventually Nero did fall asleep against her. Lady closed her eyes, fought her exhaustion long enough to fully burrito the kid in blankets. Then she stood up to barricade the windows with her furniture; if nothing happened tonight, she would ask Morrison to watch for a few hours in the morning, allowing her limited rest while certain an adult kept an eye out for demons.

She hoped Dante wouldn’t take his full ten days to return.


	13. Shards of Self

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dante tries to prepare Vergil for his return and first meeting with Nero.

_Darkness cloaks the Death Scissors, but it does not protect them. Not from a blade such as the Yamato. I had holed myself with William Blake, and after two weeks without a demon in sight, I’d dared hope for an afternoon of peace. The triplet of scissor-wielding wraiths paid the high price for their interruption. This time, I made short work of them. They’re unlikely to be the same as those which interrupted my <strike>wait for Dante</strike> stay at my childhood home, forcing me to leave. I fled at the time, the sinking feeling of watching Mother’s face distort into a demon’s following me into my dreams. Childish foolishness, yet even now, the memory haunts me._

Griffon soared away from Mallet Island, piercing through clouds of dust as the pocket of land crumbled into the sea. Dante leaned to the side to watch it sink down and he whistled as a whirlpool of water formed, all of it rushing into the hell portal before it collapsed on itself and closed forever. That was that, then.

Mundus: killed.

Gate to Hell: sealed.

Brother: rescued. Kinda.

Vergil sat rigid, gaze fixed on the horizon, brittle lips pinched into a frown. His skin had shifted from pale to white and blue lines crossed half of his face, glowing with a diffuse light. One touched his right eye, shot with red and a tad luminous, too. When Dante had first shaken him awake in Hell, the changed of colour had startled him when. Worse than the red eye, though, was the absence of recognition.

Vergil had stared at Dante like he’d had no idea who was in front of him. Dante had feared… what if they’d taken too long, and he was gone? What if he’d failed him? His stomach had clenched so hard he’d almost given back all the morning pizza, and Sparda’s power had swirled within, ready to put all of his anger to good use, to avenge his fallen brother.

Then Vergil had whispered Nero’s name and relief flooded through Dante. His brother wasn’t all gone, and if any of him was left, then they’d damn well find the rest. It didn’t matter how. They’d figured it out--heck, Dante was pretty sure Vergil might’ve remembered some of it when they’d clashed swords. Something had passed through his eyes, posture shifting into surprise and confusion. Wouldn’t that be awesome, if they only needed a few good fights to ground him back to himself? Dante was all up for it--he hadn’t nearly sparred enough with Vergil since they’d formed a family again.

Just, not now, though. Mundus’s threats clung to Dante’s mind. Lady could take care of herself, but if he’d sent the kind of horde that’d captured Vergil in the first place… Well. Not much he could do now. Mallet Island hadn’t been right next door, and he damn well knew he wouldn’t be back in time. Still, the faster the better. Birdie was lucky he’d needed the ride that badly, because Dante hadn’t vented half of the frustration he’d accumulated over the last months, and he hadn’t forgotten the look of Nero’s drawings. These two demons had traumatized his nephew, but if they were going to help him save the kid--if they didn’t want to work for Mundus any more than Trish had--well, he’d never been one for senseless killing. They could think of what to do about having two demons stuck in the human world once he knew his whole family (Lady included) was safe.

“Hey birdie,” he called, “ya know where you’re heading?”

“Straight to your little devil shop, ain’t it?”

It ought to worry him that he knew the direction to that, but really, if demons came to him that just spared Dante the trouble of hunting them down. “Nah, got a little something in mind.”

He tried to explain the way to the camping site first (which went badly, judging by Trish’s many snorts and Griffon’s protests). As much as he wanted to rush home, he wanted to try and jog Vergil’s memory a little--to get him back to himself, if he could, so he’d be readier for Nero. Now that they had their destination, he figured he might as well start early. Dante leaned back into the dark armour, shoulder blades against the chest plate (the armour felt cold and hostile, like it hated him, but Dante ignored it and filed that in his mind for later).

“Yo Vergil, how’s that sweet human-world air workin’ out for you?”

Vergil tilted his head down. At least he was listening. His eyes narrowed but he provided no answer. After a long silence (well, long as far as Dante’s standard was, which didn’t mean much), Dante made himself even more comfortable. As fucked up as Vergil was, at least he’d returned to them now, and that single thought sufficed to make Dante grin.

“Not as talkative anymore, huh?” He got no response to that question either, but it didn’t surprise him. He hadn’t heard him utter a single word except for ‘Nero’. Maybe he ought to go straight to the heart of things. “You missed out on a lot, y’know. We’ll catch you up, but your boy has missed you.”

Vergil tensed against him and set a hand on Dante’s hip, eyes closing. “Nero…”

Damn, but his voice had grown a lot deeper and raspy, like it’d been broken down into a deeper version of itself, all shards and raw power. Dante suppressed a shudder and yanked his mind away from how Mundus had achieved that. It didn’t matter anymore. Vergil was with them.

“Yeah, Nero. You wanna hear?”

Vergil answered with a slight nod and added pressure on his grip. The frown on his cracked face had softened into a wistful expression. Dante wondered what went through his brother’s mind--how much he remembered, exactly, and how much he still had to piece together. He’d fought with ease and skill, yet now that the battle was over, everything about Vergil felt stiff and stilted--like he had to fight for the slightest movement.

“Well, he still loves to draw,” Dante said.

He started rambling about Nero’s latest non-demon-related drawing, and from there he jumped to just any safe topic he could think about. Nero invented tons of games, either for himself or to play with Dante, so it wasn’t all that hard to stay away from more important events, or big changes such as Nero learning to read (that ought to stay a surprise). At one point, a low roar interrupted him from below, and Griffon cackled.

“You’re damn right, kitty! Wouldn’t have taken them on if I knew they’d never shut up.”

“Look who’s talking,” Trish countered. “There’s not a worse gossip in all of the demon world than you, Griffon.”

This elicited a low rumble from the shapeshifting panther below, and Dante couldn’t help his laugh. Maybe he ought to chat with the demons he hunted beyond the taunts and sass; these three together were kinda hilarious.

“Look, you stay stuck serving Mundus for millenias, and we’ll see if ya don’t go runnin’ after every bit of juicy story to keep yourself distracted.”

_Millenias_. Dante’s grip on his feathers tightened. Griffon had been there for Sparda’s rebellion, then, all the way to the attack that killed their mom. You’d think a demon that old would’ve grown more powerful! Maybe Griffon just didn’t care all that much, or he had more in store than he’d actually shown them.

Trish had only laughed at Griffon’s retort. “Can’t blame you. I got bored enough to try human poetry, after all.”

Griffon emitted some weird sound of disgust then cackled. Vergil hadn’t reacted to any of the conversation, not even the bit about poetry (and the way Trish had looked over her shoulder to him, Dante would bet he’d been the cause of that exploration). Sometimes it almost felt like he might be sleeping, but everytime Dante checked, his eyes were open. Maybe his mind wasn’t all there. Maybe it had to leave, sometimes. Every minute spent near his brother hammered into Dante how much his months under Mundus had changed him, and how little Dante knew of what to expect of him now.

At least the damn bird flew faster than any land ride they could’ve gotten, and they reached the camping site as the sky started lightening. Dante leaped down Griffon way before they even touched ground, and he was surprised when Vergil landed heavily by his side. He grinned at him but his twin barely acknowledged it, and it was all Dante could do to keep his smile on. He hated the way Vergil moved (out of a fight, anyway; it’d been so different when he’d been trying to kill Griffon). All his previous fluidity had vanished, replaced by a stifled yet powerful gait--like a ill-controlled machine or some shit. It was fucked up, and all wrong, and when added to how little he seemed to recognize around him, it made Dante feel like he hadn’t really found his brother at all.

“Ya remember camping?” He threw an arm around Vergil’s shoulders, ignoring the hostile coldness of his armour, and pulled him towards the beach area and the cliff. “Been a while for you, I know, but we came back this summer while you were gone. With Nero.”

In the pale grey light, the veins on Vergil’s face glowed even brighter. He scanned the surrounding area, now partly covered in snow from the recent storm, and stopped dead as his dark greaves touched the frozen sand. His lips parted and in the cold night, his subsequent exhale formed a thick mist. He advanced until he’d reached the river’s edge, then his gaze slid from the icy water towards the top of the cliff. If only Dante could read his damn mind! But something was happening behind those eyes, he just knew it. When Vergil reached up and ran a hand through his hair, slicking back what had been displaced by the flight, Dante almost whooped in victory.

Vergil’s gaze snapped to the cliff, and he reached it in a few long strides. His gauntleted fingers brushed across the lowest mark, made during their very first camping trip to record Nero's height, then they drifted a few inches higher. Dante hovered nearby, studying the pained grimace on his brother’s face, desperate to guess what was going on inside.

“He grew a lot,” he said softly, and Vergil squeezed his eyes shut as if he’d been punched. “I-I did my best to take care of him, but I ain’t you. He needs you back.”

Vergil flattened his palm on the cliff side, then leaned his forehead on it, too. “I’m…”

He didn’t finish. His left hand curled into a fist and he remained still. Struggling for words, Dante thought. Like he couldn’t get them to roll out of his mouth. Maybe Dante could help--he had always been way better at this whole talking thing.

“Fucked up? Yeah, I noticed.”

It earned him a frown, and this time the expression was so very Vergil, Dante almost burst out laughing.

“Look, bro, it’s clear Mundus did a number on you. Otherwise, you would’ve snapped at me like thirty different times since I got you outta hell. It’s… fine, though. I mean. Old you, new you… you’re still you.” Maybe that only made sense in his head, because Vergil stared at him blankly. “Under all that armour is my favourite twin, and I know he’s never gonna be quite the same, but that doesn’t mean he ain’t worth caring for.”

Once, Vergil would have pointed out that Dante only had one twin, which meant he was also his most hated twin. Instead, he retracted his hand from the cliff and ran it along the purple vein at the center of his breastplate.

“Ya wanna remove all that crap?” Dante asked. He’d love to tear that fucking armour apart. Didn’t need to know what it did exactly to understand it was bad news. “Mundus ain’t around to scold ya if you ditch his gifts anymore.”

Alarm flashed through Vergil and he leaped back, one hand gripping the Yamato’s blade. He didn’t draw it, at least, and Dante raised both of his palms to signal he didn’t want to fight (which was a lie: he’d love to kick Mundus’s ass all over again).

“No armour removal, I got it,” he said. “Consider it an open offer, Vergil. But hey, who knows, maybe your kid will love the new look.”

Playing with their demon forms had given Nero a pretty good tolerance for all sorts of demonic bullshit and Dante hoped his quip would turn out true. He didn’t want to think too hard on Nero’s reaction. It’d be fine. He’d promised to bring back his dad, and that’s exactly what he was doing! He just wished Vergil didn’t struggle to bring himself back so much, too.

Vergil’s lips parted but only a low grunt came out, dashing Dante’s hopes for clearer communication. His brother scowled at the sound, too, as if that hadn’t been what he’d meant to do at all. His shoulders slumped, and the frustration radiating from him was easy to read.

“S’all right, bro.” Dante closed to gap between them, placing a hand on the cold metal covering Vergil’s arm. “I don’t think it’s good for you, but I ain’t in your head. We’ll remove it when you’re ready and not a minute before.”

Vergil startled at the contact, but he didn’t jerk back. He stayed frozen under Dante’s touch, longing and fear and anger flitting through his face, perceptible only for a moment, and only because Dante knew him so well. So much shit was boiling under the silent surface and he had no idea how to help with any of it, or if Vergil would even let him. They sure didn’t have a good track record there.

But in the brief year they’d patched up their family and gotten close to one another again, Dante had grown real good at one thing, and maybe under all that armour and silence and hesitation, that’s what his bro really needed. So he squeezed Vergil’s forearm tighter before pulling him close, wrapping his arms around the whole armour, gritting his teeth against the cold demonic power washing out of it to hold his brother tight.

“You just remember this one thing, Vergil,” he whispered. “You’re out of there and no one will fucking force anything on you ever again. I’m here, and I ain’t going anywhere. You’re safe now.”

Dante counted the seconds during which Vergil remained tense in his arms, promising himself he’d let go after ten. At seven, however, his brother relaxed and brought his own arms up, wrapping one around Dante’s waist and bringing the other higher, sliding armoured fingers through his hair. He exhaled slowly, and Dante’s heart hammered as he held on, tears rising and threatening to spill. Eight months, damnit, but his brother really wasn’t all that far in there.

Vergil’s raw, deep voice crawled from within, a whisper at the limit of the audible offering him a world of hope.

“Dante…”

Dante’s first tear slipped out as he choked back a sob, but when Vergil squeezed him tighter, gripping at his hair, the dam broke and everything he’d stuffed down deep while caring for Nero came pouring out, widening the cracks in broken pieces he’d barely held together. Months of fear and anger and despair poured out of him, tearing their way through whether Dante liked it or not. He cried long and hard, clinging to his brother and the scratchy feeling of fingers in his hair, and at the end of the day, Dante couldn’t tell which of them had needed this hug the most.

###

It was all flooding back faster than he’d thought possible, and the memories threatened to drown him. He remembered the smell of golden brown marshmallows around a campire, the tightness of Dante’s arms around him as he accepted a gift, the soft light of dawn as it slid through his curtains and alighted on Nero’s feverish face after a long night. So much came in glimpses, the full picture sliding through his fingers as he reached for it, giving way to another scene. They were fragments of his past, scattered bits of Vergil trying to make it through to him. The shards sliced into him, leaving him gasping for more yet terrified--of finding it, or of trying and failing.

The armour kept it at bay. It helped him trade the disorienting flurry of memories and desires for a low headache and the grounding pain along his spine, shoulder blades, and limbs. It was protecting him from himself and Vergil couldn’t bring himself to remove it. He didn’t want his own memories to leave his mind into bloody ribbons, and he could feel the dangerous ones lurking under the softer, happier fragments Dante’s company kept granting him. Not all memories would be seeped in joy.

Help for removal was an open offer, however. He could wait. He decided now--decided what happened to him, and how, and although Vergil couldn’t remember all the reasons this mattered to him, the promise of control soothed him. The armour helped him stay in control, so it would remain for now.

It clanked as he followed Dante and Trish. They walked in the middle of the street, but the sun has risen and the sunlight was harsh on his eyes. He stuck to the shadows on the sides, hissing every time he needed to dash out of one to reach the next. Should he be glad for the sun? It hadn’t always been his enemy, he was certain of it, yet standing in it now turned his headache into unbearable and disorienting pounding. Once more, he found himself wishing for a helmet to cover his head.

“Aw, fuck, that’s not good.”

Dante’s exclamation drew him out of his thoughts. They’d reached his shop, but the doors had been reduced to pieces and the windows smashed in. From his position, Vergil glimpsed furniture upturned inside and walls slashed through, too. His heart sped up and he inched to the very edge of the shadows he’d taken refuge into. Dante whistled as he kicked a scorched piece in the street.

“I see your friend redecorated,” Trish said. “She did seem the explosive type.”

Dante snorted. “You don’t know the half of it. Gimme a moment.”

He walked in. Trish watched from outside, a hand on her hip, and Vergil considered following in. It would require him to cross a fair distance in the sun, however, and it may not be worth it. Dante came out within minutes, either way.

“Landline’s busted.” He crossed his arms with a string of pensive sounds that almost sounded like a hummed song. “Lady’ll have Nero with her.”

Dante had said this before, with much more confidence than he did now. Vergil stared hard at him. His… brother, yes, his brother was worried, but he refused to say why. Vergil couldn’t help but think this was typical. He wanted to ask why, yet the words clogged at the bottom of his throat. Speaking was a challenge, as if his very mind rebelled from that particular expression of the self. Even uttering Dante’s name had left him exhausted--proof that he must save his words for when they truly matter.

“So, Vergil. My home got ruined by demons while I wasn’t looking. Ya wanna crash your place and get it back in proper shape until Lady gets there with your kid?”

His place. Where he lived. Memories flickered to him--a pot of pasta boiling, large bookshelves rising to the ceiling, a bathroom with destroyed ceramic tiles… Nero sleeping on his couch, holding the Yamato’s sheathe as he trained. Vergil touched the katana’s, closed his eyes, and nodded. He wondered if being there would rekindle more of his old self.

They walked. The sun kept burning his skin, weakening him. Exhaustion curled in his muscles, wrapping around limbs and weighing him down. It felt like a long way yet only a few minutes at all, but time had shed its significance for him. It passed as it willed, even here in a world where people pretended it was regulated. Vergil was glad when they reached his home, if only for permanent shade.

"Here you are, brother," Dante said as he gestured inside. They hung back, Trish and him, as he took in his home.

The flat brimmed with familiarity. Specific memories had melded into one another, but as Vergil stepped in, a sense of safety grounded him. He had lived here longer than most other places and instinctively relaxed as he crossed its threshold. The place was simple, clean, efficient--orderly, even. He strode in, and his gaze sought that which was none of these things, and which broke the reassuring pattern of a controlled environment.

The biggest offenders were the black marks covering the lower third of the walls in a chaotic crisscross of lines surrounded by a scattering of dots. They existed without rhyme or reason, pure manifestations of impulse, but with them came a memory of Nero running completely naked through the house, giggling as he slashed across a still-blank part of the living room walls. Throat tight, Vergil crouched near the black lines and ran armoured fingers over them. This chaos belonged here as much as the order; it was why he’d come back, wasn't it? To be Vergil, or try to. To be with Nero.

He closed his eyes, recentering himself on that thought, and another memory clung to him. These walls used to be covered with drawings from Nero. He had written on them… written poetry. Blake. The same poet he'd shared with Trish while--

His mind retracted and he grunted at the sudden surge of pain. Trish had made her way through the flat and claimed the counter as her seat, one leg dangling from it, the other on the counter itself. Chaos again, and he scowled. Dante immediately laughed.

"Have some manners, Trish," he said. "Look at how annoyed he is."

Mockery and fondness had a way of mixing together in Dante's voice. Vergil enjoyed the familiarity of it and he found himself glaring at Dante as if that was the only natural response. It drew another chuckle from his brother.

"Damn, that glare got even more terrifying." His twin removed his bloodstained red coat and threw it over a kitchen chair. He had left all weapons at the door, Vergil noted. "Ya get yourselves comfortable while I call in Lady."

Vergil stared at him. He was uncertain who the Lady was. He knew her, once, yet his mind remained blank as he tried to conjure an image. A lot had returned in disjointed snippets, and he hoped this would, too. Trish slid down the counter, kneeling near him to stare at the marked walls.

"S'that more abstract symbolism like all your poetry shit, Vergil?"

He shook his head. Perhaps Nero had a meaning in mind, but he doubted it.

“You told me once he liked to draw. That’s not really what I had in mind, I gotta say.”

It wasn’t really what he meant, either. He wondered where the drawings had gone, but he didn’t know how to ask and a glance back warned him Dante was on the phone, anyway. Trish followed his gaze then flicked her hair backward and turned to him.

“Don’t keep your armour on forever, Vergil. You’re way funnier without it.” Funny didn’t seem like something he particularly desired to be, and she grinned at the frown the thought brought him. “It’s a tool of control--like a harness that suppresses you. Mundus used to do that on other demons to keep ‘em in check. I never saw him deck out anyone or anything in full plate like he did you, but I get a feeling he _really_ wanted you to obey. I can see why; Dante got him in the end.”

Vergil clenched his hands. Anger and bitterness rose within him at the mention of Mundus’s death, and he considered reaching for the Yamato to strike down the causes of his lord’s demise. It was a fleeting sentiment but no less powerful, leaving him exhausted. He understood what she was trying to say. He’d never really be himself with this armour on. But right now, the control kept him steady and calm, suppressing things he didn’t want to surface.

“I met your little boy, y’know,” she continued. “I think he will be happy to see you.”

He was not so certain. He had changed, and Nero wanted Vergil, not whoever he was today, a broken mind encased in cold armour. He didn’t feel like himself, and the more he stepped back into the life he had, the more evident it became that it would never be the same. His link to it had been torn apart and reduced to shreds. He’d have to rebuild somehow, and that felt impossible. Was the effort worth it, or should he give up now?

But Dante had said he was worth caring for no matter what. He’d said Nero had missed him, that he needed Vergil. It was so difficult to think ahead right now, to project himself into the future, but Vergil wanted to believe in these words, in Dante’s faith and love. For now, they would guide him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He sees his boy next chapter I promise!! Just needee a little brotherly talk first 💖💙


	14. Demon Dad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Vergil finally sees his little monster again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I must have revised and tweaked this chapter 20+ times holy shit. ENJOY IT'S FINALLY TIME.
> 
> (Also who remembers how Vergil gave his notes to Lady and told her to ignore the poetry? I shot myself in the foot the moment I wrote that because I KNEW I'd have to write some myself hahaha gdi
> 
> Mobile users, the snazzy poetry formatting isn't working for you, breaking my cute little "progress shot", but [hit this link](https://twitter.com/writingsquid/status/1206194262200737793) to see an image of the poetry as it looks like on a larger screen.)

<strike> _Through hardships I have been rebuilt  
Growing to my through potential_ </strike>

_Hardships shatter, reshape <strike> rebuild</strike> Hardships shatter, reshape_  
_ True potential Trim and grind one’s core_  
_A dream <strike>and</strike> True potential realised._  
_Through <strike>shards</strike> broken shards A dream_  
_Reflections <strike> An image in the mirror</strike> Through broken shards_  
_Of a <strike>man</strike> another self long gone Reflections_  
_ Of another self long gone_  
_ ** missing second sentence for rhythm? →_

When Lady's phone belted out the chorus of _Vivo per lei_, her stomach flipped and her heart climbed all the way into her throat. She'd changed the ringtone of Vergil's caller ID as a private joke after the first Christmas, though sometimes she played it on rough days where the Temen-ni-gru haunted her and she could hear Arkham whispering her name, no matter how loud she made the bullets and explosions. It helped remind her of what she had gained since, of the one father they had saved--the one they could. No one but Vergil had this ringtone, so the call had to come from his place. Which could only mean one thing: Dante had returned.

Lady dumped her current attempt at origami and scrambled for the phone, ignoring Nero's confused look. She pressed it against her ear, her heart hammering so loud she feared she wouldn't hear her caller.

"Yeah?" she asked, voice steady despite her nerves.

"Lady!" Dante sounded his usual self: upbeat and annoying. "I had such a nice surprise waiting for me at home. My shop’s totally wrecked! You gonna pay for those repairs?"

Five days had passed since she'd last seen Dante, and the relief left her legs weak. She flopped down into the closest couch and thanked her luck no one but Nero could see her grin--he'd never let her hear the end of it otherwise. The kid stared at her, eyes wide with hope. He must have heard the voice through the receiver.

"Ya should've put that in your shitty babysitting contract, Dante."

The moment she said his name, Nero jumped to his feet with a squeal. "Zio!"

He ran to Lady and climbed on the couch, extending a hand for the phone. On the other end of the line, Dante was laughing with unbridled joy and more than a hint of relief.

"Oh great, my little bud's all safe. Did he behave? How long were we gone anyway?"

Lady snorted; it was just like Dante to have no idea. "Five days. We managed."

By which she meant she'd barely slept in the last few days, running on coffee and power naps while Nero had instructions to shake her awake at the slightest hint of demons. It had been three tense days of half-hearted games between meals and long nights keeping watch while Nero shuffled around, plagued by new nightmares.

"Can't wait to hear all the new shit you put on my bill around some booze. Can I talk to the kiddo?"

"Dante." This asshole was avoiding the most important topic, baiting her into asking for news of Vergil so he could tease about their business partnership later. She wouldn't give it to him that easy. "I got a whole separate bill for your brother. I hope he's around to hear the details of it."

"He's… around, yeah. Ya might have to jog his memory on a few things."

The vagueness made it ominous. Lady pressed her lips together, her earlier relief pettering out. What was wrong with Vergil and why didn't Dante wasn't tell her directly? Was his twin nearby to hear? In what state? Her mind recoiled at the possibilities of what eight months in the demon world could have destroyed within Vergil. If this had shattered the soft demon dad in him... Lady shut down that thought immediately.

"Right," she said. "I'm putting the phone on speaker now, so Nero will hear you."

He had still been reaching for it, his grin shifting into an annoyed frown with every passing second. Lady hit the speaker button and set the phone down on her lap.

"Hey buddy," Dante greeted.

"Zio Dante!"

This time, Nero's voice cracked and a sob followed. Lady set her hand on his tiny shoulder and squeezed.

"I'm here, Nero. We're all back from our little expedition, just like you wished on your birthday."

"A-all?"

Dante might not see the tears in Nero's eyes, but he probably heard them in his thick tone all the same.

"Yeah. All of us. I got your dad back." He paused and Lady squeezed Nero's shoulder more. Something had changed, she could tell by how much Dante obviously wanted to avoid the topic. "He's a little different from before, but he's looking forward to seeing you again. Wanna come over?"

"Sí!" Nero slammed his hands on Lady's thigh, gripping it. "Voglio--I wanna da'! I--" Another sobs broke his sentence, then Nero wiped his nose. The next words slipped out as a whisper, the kind meant for no one but himself, full of sad wonder. "Da' mi amo."

"Well, I think that settles it!" Dante exclaimed. "You two head over and maybe pick up some breakfast on your way? Trish is still here, so count her in for food."

"I'm putting it on your bill, Dante."

Lady hung up without waiting for an answer. It sounded like she’d been wrong about Trish, and right now she was thrilled enough to consider making amends or playing nice. Or not putting any bullets in her, anyway. Whatever state Vergil was in sounded awful, but at least he was still alive and with them. Despite the knots of worry, she found herself eager to see him again--to confirm with her own eyes that he was back. Part of her still resented Dante for leaving her out of the rescue, even knowing Nero had needed her here and that Vergil would rather she’d save his kid than him a thousand times over. Besides, if one set aside the horrible lack of sleep, she’d enjoyed her time with Nero more than she’d expected.

Lady absentmindedly ruffled Nero's hair as she gave her body and mind time to recover from the too-rare good news and her shakiness at the idea of seeing Vergil again, then she pushed herself back to her feet. "All right, Nero! Time to welcome your demon dad back into the family!"

###

Time regained its full meaning as Vergil waited for his son to arrive. He had found the clock in his house and watched the minutes trickle by, each of them far too long to be real. Dante told him he had been in Hell for eight months, and he knew months were made of days, which comprised hours, which in turn had sixty minutes each. He tried to fathom the countless, unending minutes he had spent away, but he’d forgotten most of them. Crumbs of his time with Trish listening and discussing poetry returned, and he knew he’d been in terrible pain, but he’d erased the source from his mind. This was exactly the kind of memory the armour protected him from.

Vergil couldn’t fathom why he would ever want them back.

A child's voice bounced into the flat from the corridor outside, filled with excitement and a hint of fear. Warmth spread through Vergil as he listened to it blabber about home and his birthday cake and his da', and his chest constricted in painful ways. Nero was here. His son, his anchor into himself. The armour may block painful memories, but Vergil doubted he'd have anything left to protect if not for Nero, and the quickening pace of his heart left him trembling. He had suffered so much to be back here.

A hand touched his and squeezed. Dante, signalling his presence, encouraging him to stand. Vergil unfolded and stepped away from the couch, but he couldn’t bring himself to get closer to the door. It loomed in front of him, the last obstacle between him and his son.

The door opened, and tiny boots stomped inside, caked with snow.

Nero was bundled in full winter gear. The hood of his shark suit had been pulled over his tuque, providing a tiny row of teeth, and he didn’t remove mitts or boots as he came running. The too-small suit left his wrists exposed, but he didn’t care. He had eyes only for Vergil, whose knees gave in as Nero entered, and whose arms hung open, almost an invitation for a hug.

He had forgotten how beautiful his boy was.

Except Nero's grin diminishes as he approached and took in the armour and cracked skin, lined with blue veins. His steps slowed down and he stopped an arm's length away from Vergil. Nero stared, wary, and it felt like he saw him better than anyone had so far--like he knew how different he was inside, too. Vergil shook under the scrutiny, every inch of his body tense. This was a test, and he doubted he deserved to pass it.

Nero frowned, edged closer, and touched Vergil’s cheek, running his fingers along the blue veins in it. His fingers felt cool, refreshing, and Vergil’s breath caught in his throat. Nero dropped his hand.

“You’re not da’,” he declared, the words a lance through Vergil’s chest. “I wanna see demon da’!”

Demon. Memories of a toddler climbing upon him and exploring the ridges of his demonic form floated back to Vergil. It had been the first time Nero had realized Vergil was part devil, and he had been so scared. After that day, however, he had held often Nero in this form while reading stories to him, or soothing him, but sometimes also to poke him playfully with his tail. Good memories, warm and reassuring for both of them. That was who Vergil was to Nero: the demon dad. That was what Nero wanted now.

Vergil closed his eyes and searched within. Power had always dwelled inside and it used to come as easily as breathing, an intrinsic part of who he was. He tried to find it once more, that surge of energy, the lightheadedness of dominance over himself and the world around. Something swirled deep down, and he reached for it, pulling it up. His armour throbbed, the lines upon it glowing purple as strength coursed through his muscles. The world around slowed, his perception of time shifting as the demon in him awakened and his breathing quickened. He was ready for battle, a soldier--the best of them all. He smiled, fingers curling into a fist, armour pulsing with power, and his mind quested for an opponent to crush.

Scared blue eyes met his and Vergil reeled from their gaze, snapping back to himself. That wasn’t what Nero wanted--that wasn’t the demon dad. That… that was the power Mundus had granted him, grafting it upon his own, as he had grafted the armour on his body. Vergil wrestled for control over it, but as he came closer to his own demon power, the pounding in his head turned into searing agony. Blue scales flickered across his skin for an instant, then the pain became too much and he released the power, bending forward with a grunt.

Nero stepped back, eyes full of water. Vergil lifted a trembling hand but stopped short of his son’s cheek. Touching him with the gauntlets felt incongruous. He had failed his test.

“Nero…”

The word escaped him as it has so often since his capture, an anchor point. His voice has deepened, turned raw and jagged, and Nero startled at it, scrambling back. His lips quivered and anger bared his forehead, but he raised his chin in defiance.

“You’re not da’!” He flung the accusation as one would knives. “Da’ would--he… I want--I--”

Nero never finished. He spun and ran away, tiny legs carrying him to the bedroom. The door slammed as Lady called after him, red boots stomping across the apartment as she followed. Vergil hadn’t moved. They could all hear the child’s sobs in the heavy silence that followed, each of them a hammer slamming on his fissured heart. He didn’t know how many hits he could take before it shattered forever. Vergil squeezed his eyes shut, hands tight. The pounding in his head had vanished, replaced by heavy exhaustion.

“Fuck,” Dante whispers, and then he was crouching in front of Vergil, his presence perceptible even without looking. “He’ll come around, Vergil. Give him time. He still loves you.”

Vergil shook his head. They didn’t understand. Nero was right. He wasn’t the demon dad his son sought. That Vergil was gone, broken beyond repair. All that remained was a simulacrum of scattered memories and desires held together by an armour in great part responsible for the destruction. Nero saw that, even if the others wouldn’t. He should not be forced to love a pale copy of the father he once had.

“Vergil--”

Vergil interrupted Dante with a raised hand. Reassurances were pointless. If Nero did not want him... Vergil fought the despair crawling through him, cold and unyielding, latching upon his exhaustion. He pushed himself up and turned away from the bedroom’s door, to sit back on the couch. The cushion welcomed him and he found himself dreaming of sleep and that sweet oblivion, away from all of this. Rest had become such a foreign concept to him. Had he ever slept in Hell, where time had no meaning and unconsciousness had devoured most of his existence? He couldn’t remember, wasn’t even certain he could distinguish the two anymore.

“Kid had a rough time while y’all were gone,” Lady provided. “Maybe he’s best left alone while it sinks in. Full offense, Vergil, but ya look like shit and I don’t blame him.”

Her playful rudeness held something grounding. She wasn’t supposed to be nice to him. It was how they interacted, he knew this for sure even though he struggled to recall specific memories of her. He tilted his head to the side in silent acknowledgement of her evaluation of his appearance, and she snorted.

“You should sleep, demon dad, ‘cause the bags under your eyes would net you an oversized charge on airplanes.” Vergil couldn’t help but touch his face, and that drew another laugh out of her. “Remember how? All you gotta do is close your eyes and hope for the best.”

Vergil stared at Lady. She was echoing his earlier thoughts so closely, he couldn’t tell if she understood him better than he’d thought, or if she’d taken a lucky guess. He worried he couldn’t fall asleep anymore, or that somehow as he rested Nero would grow to hate him more (he knew the child did not strictly hate him, and yet, the worry stayed). There was nothing to be done about Nero for now, however, and everything that had unfolded since he’d last been awake weighed on him. Hell and his compulsion to fight for Mundus, his memories slipping through his fingers or rushing back in, Dante’s promise and closeness and warmth… Nero’s rejection… It had all been… so much. The weariness sank in, wrapping itself around him so tightly he doubted rest could ever dispel it. He should try nonetheless.

It was awkward, to close his eyes and lay back when they all so obviously watched him, yet Vergil’s mind quieted without trouble, sleep stealing him from the world with worrying ease.

###

They stared at Vergil in silence until it was obvious he had actually fallen asleep. Lady hated seeing him in this armour. It didn’t suit him, and she knew it had to do with whatever bullshit Mundus had put him through. All of this sucked--Vergil’s gaunt cheeks and blue-veined face, his obvious trauma and exhaustion, Nero’s understandable but tragic reaction… it was all fucked up on so many levels, and she just wanted it to end. But of course it wouldn’t be simple. Nothing ever was.

“A little different, huh?” Lady said, repeating Dante’s words back at him.

He flinched. “Yeah, well, I didn’t know how to explain. He’s in there all right, just…”

“Yeah.” Lady didn’t need the explanation; she could imagine it well enough. It made her look forward to the next hunt, so she could find some demons to blow into tiny pieces and vent her anger. Every second of looking at Vergil filled her with rage, and she’d barely had a chance to release it. Later, though. For now, they still needed to find their way back to normal family routines. “I wonder if the demons ruined his cake slice.”

Dante laughed, then shook his whole body, as if he needed to shed a daze. “Y’know what? I think I’ll go check on that and the shop, see if I can sleep there tonight. You girls eat some of that breakfast and keep an eye on our messy family reunion, mkay?”

He didn’t wait for their agreement and was out the door before Lady even remembered what breakfast he meant. Probably needed to be on his own. She unpacked the muffins, croissants, and fresh fruits she’d grabbed at the grocery on their way here, ignoring Trish sitting on the counter and towering over her. Being small sucked a lot of the time, but it did even more so now. Lady was about to grab herself that carrot and cheese muffin when she couldn’t take the silent treatment anymore and snapped.

“Gonna play the fucking gargoyle all day, or you wanna eat?”

Lady snatched an apple up and threw it upward in a slow arc. Trish had no trouble catching it, but she didn’t bite yet.

“Do humans always eat this much?” she asked.

“This much?”

Trish stretched out on the counter, leaning back with the lazy ease of a cat. “You had cake when I arrived. Dante offered me pizza before we could cross on Mallet Island. Now we are having… breakfast? It seems as if it is either fighting or eating.”

“Oh, that’s a Dante thing. Everyone else mostly eats three times a day.” She grabbed herself a chair from the dining room and dragged it closer to Vergil. “We got time. Catch me up on everything. I want to know what happened, what the armour is--everything. It’s important. We’re all a team.”

Trish narrowed her eyes at Lady. She must have sensed the partial truth there, but if it bothered her, she didn’t say.

"Vergil never mentioned you," she stated, and Lady could've just about put several bullets in her for it. It didn't matter. Of course he hadn't--he'd been trapped in Hell with their archnemesis and clinging to his family. And she _wasn't_ family. She was a business partner.

"Like I care," she spat. "You gonna tell the story or I have to shoot it out of you?"

Trish cocked her head and smiled. "I'd like to see you try."

Now that was _it_. Trish wasn't even being smug, she was just stating it, like she'd declare any other preference! That made it even more infuriating. Lady reached for her hip--and cursed when she remembered she'd left her weapons at the door.

"I didn't mean now," Trish said. "Just… one day. For fun. It sounded like I'd enjoy the challenge."

Somehow Dante had managed to find someone else who loved being shot at. Maybe it should surprise Lady more, but instead she laughed. She'd probably need the distraction soon. "You're on, then. Now tell me."

Trish took her first bite into the apple before she started the story, peppering it with comments about Dante's peculiar sense of humour as if it was the best thing ever. Lady couldn't help but cringe at that--you grew used to the puns and one-liners, but she'd never thought to actually call them funny. As soon as Trish had finished with the important details, Lady jumped in with her own anecdotes about Dante’s recklessness and shitty humour. They were still trading those along with a few choice stories about Vergil when Dante returned, several hours later. He pretended to be offended for a grand total of thirty seconds, then joined in with his own juicy anecdotes.

###

They talked until Nero peeked out of his room, eyes rimmed with red from crying, his shark suit and boots discarded inside. Dante handed him a muffin and plopped the kid on his lap, trying hard not to let his guilt build up every time Nero glanced at the prone figure on the couch. He’d fucked up, reuniting them this quickly, but he couldn’t have kept the kid from his dad. Nero just needed time, or so he told himself. After hours of quiet and distracted play, Dante took him out for a stroll, entrusting Vergil to Lady and Trish once more. At least the girls seemed to have hit it off: Lady had offered her place to crash (free of charge!) and they were making plans to hit some clubs in the following days, once she’d had a solid night of sleep.

Dante had meant to ask Lady what had happened at his shop, but Nero provided him all the details as soon as they set off on their walk, retelling Lady’s battle with great gestures and enthusiasm and acting like his voice didn’t shake through half the tale. Dante wished that excitement had lasted once they returned, but as soon as Nero’s eyes found the couch, he quieted once more.

_Time_, Dante reminded himself once again, crushing the mounting frustration. Fighting hordes of demons to rescue his twin had been easy--Mundus included, really. This whole figuring out how to help him heal and make his family whole again thing? That was way out of Dante’s league. He didn’t know how to do this, and he really wished he didn’t have to do it at all. But this would be the last time. Mundus wasn’t there to smash their into pieces anymore, and they’d all be allowed to move on. Vergil would stop looking over his shoulder, and once he’d gotten better, they’d find a way to properly honour Eva’s memory--maybe plant an apple tree or something. The enormity of what he’d accomplished today (yesterday? In the last five? Time had grown so fucked up) was starting to sink in.

They were free. No matter how much remained to be fixed still, they had all the time in the world to do so, and one day they’d be jumping on couches and belting out _Vivo per lei_ once more, as if none of this shit had ever happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Each one of you who was extremely worried about this meeting was right. I think someone even called it on the devil trigger? Good job and RIP haha. 
> 
> Quick management note: we will be updating Dec 22, Dec 27, and Dec 31, closing down this fic and "Disaster Dad Season 1" this year. :) Decided to stay within 2019 and use a bonus update for that extra fluff I wound up adding in edits haha.


	15. A Father's Core

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Nero and Vergil work their ways back towards one another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are you ready for some extreme father and son feels? You better be, because here we go ~

_ <strike>I miss him. Them. </strike> _

<strike> _I don’t want to be alone with my nightmares._ </strike>

<strike></strike> _I will <strike>beat</strike> vanquish these <strike>nightmares</strike> night terrors. They <strike>aren’t real</strike> are ephemeral._

Spikes along the vambrace dug into his skin, expanding their hooks within, releasing cold demonic energy that sent his mind ringing. He scrambled for purchase, desperate to pull it off, bloodied fingernails breaking off as he sought to slip his fingers under and rip it off. He had no strength left, only the panic of this armour sinking its teeth into him, of the way it dulled him--his spite for Mundus, his love for Nero, his very sense of who he was. It all slipped so easily now, without Trish to read poetry to him. Chains wrapped around him, yanked him upright and pulled his arms away, on each side. The chest plate hit him hard, piercing his chest through, thick black paste holding it steady as the pain spread through him, shattering his meagre resistance and leaving a blank slate.

Vergil jolted upright, phantom pain rippling through his body. His head pounded under the brutal headache and he curled in on himself, gripping his hair as he waited for the constant throb to pass. He was not a blank slate. He was alive, and free, though what that might mean remained elusive.

“Morning Vergil!” Dante chirped.

Vergil craned his neck and stared at his brother through the long bangs of his hair. It kept falling down, and Vergil had a vague sense it shouldn’t--that he meant for it to remain carefully slicked back. Dante had his legs kicked up on his desk, magazine in hand, and judging by the sunlight through the windows, it wasn’t morning at all. Vergil was in his brother’s office, on his couch. Safe. Dante had promised nothing would be done to him without his permission, and so far nothing had.

Several days had passed since his return. They’d moved back to the _Devil May Cry_, which had one more room than his home. Dante insisted that he should take the second bed upstairs and sometimes Vergil allowed himself the luxury, but most nights he elected to stay on the couch. It didn’t matter, in truth; nightmares plagued his sleep no matter where he was. Sometimes he woke to find Dante by his side, sitting on the ground or laying there with a pillow of his own, as if he couldn’t help but stay close while Vergil writhed in his sleep. They both acted as if it never happened.

Nero avoided him. He only looked his way when he thought Vergil wouldn’t notice, and otherwise he played alone or with Dante, or hid in his room. He was never rude during their meals together, but he remained quiet and that in itself felt wrong. Dante had to drag the conversation out of the boy with prompts, though he did happily answer any questions asked. Vergil had many--about his games, or his art, or the months he’d missed--but the words tied themselves into a knot and remained stuck in his throat.

Lady and Trish had turned into a pair. They always crashed the office together, their endless banter a relief to the heavy silence. Trish told Nero of all the cool things she had experienced and he recommended her new ones in very serious tones, taking it upon himself to instruct her in the way of living as a human. From the sound of it, she was enjoying her renewed freedom. Once or twice, she implied she still returned to the camping site, and it sounded like Griffon and Shadow had chosen it as their new home, at least for now. Vergil wondered if it was safe, but it didn’t seem to bother Dante and he had no energy to waste on them. Everything was still too tiring and he’d rather focus on himself and Nero.

Not that he was any closer to unraveling the tangle of his mind, no matter how long and often he slept, or how much he watched his child play. Memories slipped in and out, their warmth an elusive protection from the nightmares that plagued his nights and which he knew the armour kept at bay during the day. Vergil didn’t know how to reach out to Nero or even why he’d deserve the chance.

One day Dante decided to stop ordering pizza, opened the fridge to find something to cook, and rediscovered a slice of bright yellow cake.

“Hey Nero!” he called out. “We never gave Vergil his slice of birthday cake. C’mere!”

Nero bolted across the room, flinging himself into Dante’s legs as his uncle came out of the kitchens.

“Zio Dante.” He squeezed Dante’s leg and in return, his uncle ran a hand through his white hair. The casual mark of affection soothed Vergil, too, but trying to unravel why the sight of Dante and Nero together brought him such warmth set off a low throbbing at the base of his skull.

“You’re in charge of offering this to him,” Dante declared.

Nero accepted the plate but didn’t move. “After, I wanna play with you.”

“Five days with Lady and you’re already negotiating, huh?” Dante asked before ruffling his hair. “We can play s’long as you want after.”

Nero beamed at his promise, then scampered off with the plate and brought it to Vergil, on the couch. He didn’t slow down as he approached, instead lifting the plate up as far as his small arms allowed. Vergil accepted gingerly, careful to hold it steady despite the pointed end of his gauntlets. The moment he’d relieved Nero of his charge, the child climbed up the couch and settled next to him. Vergil tightened his grip on the plate, resisting the urge to turn towards Nero and touch him, to squeeze his shoulders and arms, or run a hand through his hair--anything to make sure he was real and here with him. Nero had avoided him so much, it was strange to have him so close now.

“I like fish,” Nero started, and Vergil smiled, because he remembered that about him and Nero had played a lot with his miniature aquarium in the last days. He listened as he pulled the plastic off his slice of cake, amazed that they had kept some for him. “Sharks are the best fish. My da’ took me to an aquarium and I touched one. It was very smooth. But the cake isn’t a shark. The cake is a puff-fish. They use internal farts to make themselves bigger!”

Vergil’s heart tightened as Nero mentioned his da’ as if talking about a different person, but that particular feeling was quickly washed away as Nero proudly explained the use of internal farts as a defense mechanism. He didn’t need to ask who had taught this to his son. Even with all the holes in his memory, he knew. His glare met Dante’s sheepish grin and his brother shrugged, a silent challenge to contradict him now. Oblivious to their silent exchange, Nero continued with his talk of puff-fish and birthdays.

“Do you like cake, Mister Knight?” he asked. “It was supposed to be my da’s slice but they insist that’s you. I’m sorry. I think they can’t tell you’re a different demon. Do you know how to use a fork? Miss Trish didn’t. I didn’t either, at first. My da’ taught me.”

Had he? Vergil frowned, but the moment he sought to find that memory, his pounding headache returned. Distracted, he picked up the cake with his fingers. Nero squealed in protest and grabbed his forearm, his finger’s warmth seeping through the demonic material.

“You must use la forchetta!” Nero declared, pulling until Vergil obligingly set the piece of cake down. His heart hammered in his chest at Nero’s touch, simple though it was.

Satisfied that he wasn’t about to eat the cake anymore, Nero slid down the couch, ran for the ustensil drawers, and returned with a brand new fork. He did not hand it to Vergil, however, and instead climbed onto his lap, grasping the edges of his armour for grip as he pulled himself up. Vergil froze, breathless, as his boy settled into his lap and placed the fork between his fingers.

Nero weighed more than he remembered, and his head reached higher than he’d expected. He had grown so much over the last year. Vergil knew this, of course, had been stunned by the difference between the two marks on the camping site, but it was entirely different to experience it. His boy’s face was sharper, his English better, his body taller and more muscled. They were preparing to eat his five years birthday cake, and Vergil knew for certain he had missed most of the fifth year, trapped in the demon world. Nero had changed, too. He was not the round-cheeked excited toddler Vergil had clung to under Mundus’s torture anymore--no more than Vergil was the demon dad his son remembered. Yet that did not make Nero any less his little monster.

But if that was true… Was Vergil any less Nero’s demon dad, despite how little of his previous self remained?

He closed his eyes, his entire body relaxing at the thought, and he leaned forward until Nero’s hair tickled his nose and he could breathe it in deeply. His own long bangs fell partly over his face, as if drawing a curtain to hide him from view. He held Nero, left arm wrapped around the small body and steadying the plate in his lap, his right arm under the boy's control, and as Nero helped him bring the fork to the cake and carve out his first bite, memories of their fork-holding lesson wormed their way around his headache. They were sparse--Nero's weight against his chest, spaghetti flying all over the table, the fear of his little monster failing and throwing another tantrum. Yet amidst those recollections lied a core of pride and hope, and as Vergil took a first bite now, Nero's much smaller hand guiding his, he latched onto that remembered feeling.

Hope. Pride. Love. They filled his chest, echoes of the past, of his time as Nero’s father.

That was what it meant for him to be free, what Mundus had torn from him. He wanted it back--_needed_ it back--and he’d do anything to find this feeling once more. It was the core he would never abandon, what had kept him going through the last months. Nero may not think of him as dad anymore, but one day he would. Vergil’s headache stirred, a sharp pain in his temples, yet he felt lighter and steadier than ever.

“Thank you… Nero.”

The words demanded every ounce of focus he had, but Nero’s grip grew tighter on his fingers when he uttered them. Vergil took his first bite, and he muffled a surprised exclamation. It was so sweet it almost burned his mouth. What sort of devilry was this cake? He considered setting the fork down, but Nero turned around on his lap and smiled up at him.

“Do you like the puff-fish, Mister Knight?”

How could he say no? Vergil swallowed with a nod and Nero brightened even more, so Vergil found himself reaching for another bite despite the overwhelming sugariness of the cake. Satisfied that he knew how to wield a fork, Nero started sliding off his lap.

Panic coursed through Vergil. He didn’t want his son to leave. He grabbed Nero’s shoulder and his lips parted, but he couldn’t find the words, couldn’t think of anything past how much he needed the boy on his lap. Nero stared, eyes wide, until Vergil offered him the third bite. Then he frowned.

“It’s your cake,” he stated. “I had mine.”

Vergil shook his head. Pointed at Nero, then back at himself.

“I think he wants to share with ya, kiddo,” Dante translated, only to laugh at Vergil’s eager nod. He placed a hand over his heart. “Can’t refuse an offer like that. I’m a little jealous, to be honest.”

Something in Dante’s melodramatic tone pinged a specific reaction out of Vergil, a playful irritation he couldn’t stop. He flipped his grip on the fork and sent the cake flying across the room, the latest bite smacking on his brother’s cheek with a squishy sound. Shocked silence fell between them, seconds trickling by as Dante slowly ran his thumb through the icing on his face.

Nero burst into happy giggles, then reached for the cake, grabbing a fistful of it in one hand while he steadied himself by grabbing Vergil’s armour with the other. “Anche io!”

He threw it hard across the room, surprising Vergil with the strength of his arm. The cake flew at Dante, who didn’t bother to dodge. It splat on his nose and mouth this time, and he wiped it out and ate it immediately.

“S’that what I get from teachin’ ya baseball, Nero? Cake?” He licked his fingers one by one, grinning at them. “Hey, they say sharing is caring. You got weird technique there, bro, but I’ll take it.”

Perhaps his mind still struggled with words and meanings, yet to Vergil that sounded like permission to repeat the experience. He cut through the cake with the fork, but this time, he handed it to Nero, who squealed in glee and used his whole arm to send the cake flying. He threw with such force that the fork slipped out of his cake-filled grasp and went smashing on Dante’s nose. Nero gasped, then burst out laughing, and Vergil’s chest felt ten times larger and lighter from the pure sound of his child’s giggles.

“Oh, now that’s quite enough!” Dante declared.

He rushed to them and plunged his hands around Nero’s sides, tickling him even as he sat on Vergil. The boy squirmed in his lap, which sent the leftover cake flying into the couch, and more than once he slapped his hands in Dante’s face in an attempt to defend himself, spreading the bright yellow icing. Joy filled Vergil at Nero’s laughter, a spark building inside of him until he could no longer contain it and a low, pleased rumbled escaped him. Dante never stopped tickling Nero, but his head snapped up, elation shining through his eyes.

“You’re next,” he warned, even though they both knew it was pointless through the armour.

Vergil tilted his chin up to glare at him in defiance. He did not remember when he’d last felt lightheaded from sheer happiness.

###

After a week in the human world, Trish had finally wrapped her head around the concept of time. It was a lot easier with the sun and the moon chasing each other across the sky, and with the gazillion clocks humans tended to put everywhere. These people really were scared to lose track of it and “lose” it, whatever that might mean. That was the part she didn’t get yet, how one could misplace an abstract concept, but she had a feeling humans would never stop being weird to her.

Or maybe it was just hard to understand them when she still struggled to figure herself out. Trish had learned about as much about herself in a week as she did about them, and that was perhaps the best part of all. She’d been right: she wasn’t a serious person. Messing around with the slowest human specimens or teasing Lady (who had much faster wits about herself) proved to be some of her favourite activities. Dancing, too, especially late in the night when the club lights flashed and alcohol made humans bolder and funnier.

Sometimes she helped Lady with her hunt, too, and zapping demons she knew had belonged in Mundus’s army had a peculiar charm to it. She wished she had been invited along tonight’s job, but apparently the client had specifically asked for Dante, so he and Lady had gone out hunting together… and asked her to watch over Nero. Trish had figured it’d be simple. Vergil could do all the work while she helped. Except Vergil was sleeping, as always. His body really wasn’t dealing well with this whole return thing, though if you asked her, the Nelo Angelo armour wasn’t helping either. It’d been built to enhance his combat prowess while crushing his sense of self, so even without Mundus’s power to fuel the latest part, she’d bet it was hindering him, sucking him dry. She’d told him and he hadn’t listened, though, and Dante was quite adamant he wouldn’t force the issue.

This, then, left her alone with a human child while the father slumbered upstairs. Nero had upgraded from calling her “Miss Demon” to “Miss Trish” and he was cute, but she had no idea what to do with him. He’d spent a lot of the evening drawing forms on a piece of paper with his marker, but now he kept stopping to look past the stairs, in the vague direction of Dante’s room where Vergil slept.

“Do you miss him?” she asked.

Nero pouted and slapped his marker down on the paper. “He’s not my da’. I can tell!”

“He’s not?” Her eyebrows arched and she leaned back, crossing her legs. She’d expected Nero to get over his initial shock, but human kids were weird. “Why not? What would make him your dad?”

Nero’s lips thinned and he ripped at the corner of his sheet of paper, not answering. Didn’t he even know? How confusing. Trish flicked her hair and let her gaze float upward, towards the bedroom.

“Is it because he looks different? I saw that happen, you know. It’s not his fault.”

“S’not him,” Nero mumbled. “He’s different. Feels different. And… My da’... my da’ loves me.”

Trish laughed. The sharp sound tore out of her before she could think better of it, because if there was one thing Vergil had never stopped doing, no matter how badly off, it was loving Nero. The reaction earned her a glare from the kid, and it was _almost _more scary than cute. Almost.

“Kid. Your dad was in a shit place. He suffered a lot, and they put that armour on him to control his demon. He forgot a lot of important things but… when I talked to him at the worst of it, he still whispered your name. He kept it close to his heart. I think… I think if he’d only been allowed to keep one thing, that’s the one he’d have chosen.” She tilted her head to the side and leaned forward, setting her elbows against the table. Nero was staring at her, eyes wide and full of water. “I don’t know if human children understand these things, but he loved you more than he loved himself.”

Nero sniffled loudly. “He d-did?”

“Still does, I bet. You should ask him yourself.”

This time, the kid didn’t answer. He scrambled out of the chair, leaving marker and paper behind and sprinting up the stairs. She resettled into her chair as he zoomed directly for Dante’s room, a smile floating on her lips. For all that he pretended Vergil wasn’t his dad, Nero sure hadn’t hesitated long to go confirm her words.

###

Small hands at the edge of his breastplate and in his hair shook him awake. Vergil jerked upright, breath short, his mind trapped in the cobwebs of another bad dream. The surprised yelp by his side grounded him in the present and his gaze found Nero. His son had climbed on the bed and watched him, still on all fours from scrambling back. His eyes were watery, but no red streaked his cheeks, so he must not have cried. Still, Vergil’s stomach tightened with worry. Nero never sought him out. Had something gone wrong?

Vergil’s hand clenched into a fist and his gaze flew away from Nero, to the Yamato waiting against the wall. Power thrummed through his armour in anticipation of battle. The cobwebs cleared out, brushed away by it, and all trace of his usual physical exhaustion vanished. Whoever needed killing would meet the end of his blade. He slid out of the covers, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Mister Knight?” Nero interrupted, fear threading through his voice. Vergil turned, eager to receive his orders and obey, but Nero only reached for his arm and added, much more softly, “F-Father?”

_Father_. Vergil froze. Nero had never acknowledged that since his return, stubbornly insisting he _wasn’t_ his father, and now…? His mouth dried, and the rush of energy from the armour vanished. Exhaustion slammed back into him immediately, fogging his mind and weighing down his limbs. He forced himself to focus on Nero and smiled at him, as encouraging as he could be. Nero crawled a little closer, small fingers slipping through the joint of his armour at the elbow and knee.

“Miss Trish says you had a lot of pain and it made holes in your memory. She says…”

Tears sprung in his eyes, and Vergil hoped Trish had spared him the details, whatever else she’d said. If he couldn’t bear to remember himself… He let his fingers trail through Nero’s hair as gently as possible despite the gauntlets and Nero found the courage to continue in a low, mumbled tone.

“She says your demon is in there and you didn’t forget me. She says you always loved me. I-Is it—” He hiccupped and raised his head. His mouth turned into a thin line, sobs barely contained, but when he spoke again, his words stayed firm and filled with determination. “My da’ loves me. Do you?”

Vergil’s hand moved from Nero’s hair to his cheek. The boy was shaking under his touch--or perhaps that was him, he couldn’t tell. Words clung to the inside of his throat, refusing to climb out, fighting him and his mind, setting off the lancing pain he’d come to associate with the return of any memories. Vergil didn’t know how to force them out, but he couldn’t stay silent, not now. He needed to get his answer across. Slowly, he turned to face Nero fully and wrapped both hands around his face. Nero’s head felt fragile in his armoured grip, but he stroke his cheeks nonetheless, then bent forward and kissed his forehead.

Nero burst into tears and climbed on his lap, wrapping his arms around Vergil’s neck, and Vergil immediately responded to the embrace, hugging him back. For the longest time, he held him close wordlessly, praying Nero understood. Nero’s head pushed against his neck as he held tight, his words coming in fits of sobs. “I thought--You don’t feel the same. I--I’m sorry I--”

Nero pulled back, and Vergil squeezed him tighter for an instant, as if to build up a reserve of this clingy hug. Part of him was terrified his son would leave and never return. Instead, Nero wiped his tears then captured his gaze with big blue eyes.

“I love you, Da’. I miss you.”

Tears sprung into Vergil’s eyes, surprising him and blurring his sight. He hadn’t known he could cry still, yet a few fat ones rolled down his cheek, following the groove of corruption Mundus had left. Nero wiped them out with his thumb, small fingers soft against his cracked skin.

“Nero…” The raw whisper squeezed through the lump in his throat, and soon Vergil managed two more broken words. “I… love…”

Nothing else followed, so he rested his forehead against Nero’s and closed his eyes. His son didn’t move, small hands steady on Vergil’s cheeks while Vergil held Nero’s shoulders. They stayed like this for a small eternity, and Vergil would’ve never broken the moment if he could. This felt like a dream, but none of his recent ones had ever been so kind. When Nero stirred, Vergil stole one last kiss from his temple before leaning back. Nero wiped his nose with his elbow.

“Are words hard, da’? You’re sick, aren’t you?”

Vergil nodded. It was the simplest explanation, and his heart and stomach hurt from the raw emotions, so it had a deep layer of truth to it.

“Is that why you didn’t do the demon? Because you’re sick?” When Vergil nodded again, Nero’s face morphed into a determined pout. “We need to make you better. You always read to me when I was sick.”

With that simple fact established, Nero clambered down the bed, leaving Vergil alone and confused. He listened to the small footsteps as Nero went to his room, shuffled around in it, then returned with a tiny book. He climbed back into the bed, stomped around it as he piled the pillows against the wall, then promptly indicated that Vergil should lean back into them.

“It is okay to be sick. Zio Dante was very sick once. We took care of him.” Nero met his eyes with the most serious expression. “I can be father. A father loves and protects. And I love you. So I will take care of you, now.”

Vergil stared, too stunned to even attempt a reply or acknowledgement. He had taught him that, once upon a time, promising to be his father--to love and protect him no matter what. But when he had last been awake, Nero still avoided him. To hear him vow to care for this broken shell… Nero had always been so eager to help, brimming with compassion, and now he’d aged and gained the energy and confidence to accompany it. He had grown into such a beautiful, kind boy. Nero pushed at his shoulder, insisting until Vergil made use of his pillow nest, then he climbed back into his father’s lap and pulled the blankets over them, keeping only his small book on top.

“Words are hard but you don’t have to read anymore,” Nero said. “I can do it now. Zia Lady taught me. She said it would make you happy.”

Happy did not begin to cover the way his stomach clenched and his heart fluttered as Nero placed his index finger on the page and pronounced his first word. Vergil wrapped his arms around the boy, shivers of joy running through him, pride and hope swirling through him once more. Nero knew how to read. He was reading _him _a story, each word slow but practiced, imbued with so much affection and determination. Vergil had forgotten how it felt, to truly connect with his son--to love him and be loved, and cherish every second of their time together.

He would never forget again, though. He was free, his life his own to control now, and nothing would ever separate him from his little monster again.

###

Dante came home from an awesome job slicing through a hydra-like demon to find Nero on his father's lap, both of them sleeping with the softest expressions on their faces and a mountain of pillows behind. This just had to be the best day of his life, or close enough, and he snuck back downstairs humming to himself, twirling Ivory and Ebony happily. Trish sat stretched out on the pool table with the most self-satisfied smirk he'd seen from her yet (which was something, because she'd quickly grown into an expert on those), and he grinned at her.

"You the one responsible for the scene upstairs?"

"Don't see what you mean," she said with the tone of someone who meant 'of course, who else?'.

He laughed and heaved himself up on his desk, grabbing the phone. "Sounds like I owe you a dozen pizza. You game for more taste reconnaissance?"

They'd tried a bunch of different pizza types this week, but found none that matched the way she tasted the word. Dante had never been a man to give up, though, especially not on something that provided the perfect excuse to eat more pizza. He grabbed the menu from the closest joint and picked six they hadn't scratched off the list yet to fill his order with.

"So how did ya do it?"

She leaned back, a curtain of golden hair he'd known all his life falling off her shoulder. "You make it sound like I worked a miracle!"

As far as he was concerned, she had, so he only gestured at the air.

"I just told the kid how Vergil was when I met him. Nero must have loved hearing how much his dad talked about him." She shrugged and swung her legs off the side before sliding down the table. "Imma go take a peek at 'em. Gotta enjoy the fruit of my labour!"

She vanished upstairs for a while, and Dante used the opportunity to dig out the last of his whisky. He couldn't remember when he'd last had a glass in celebration instead of in an attempt to dull the hurt, and he hummed as he poured one for him, and one for Trish. She liked to act casual about Vergil and Nero, but he knew she collected news on them from Lady whenever she could and she'd asked him roundabout questions on occasion, too. Despite her origins and her appearance (or perhaps because of them), she'd slipped into their group dynamic with ease, and he'd started thinking of her as a friend, same as Lady. So when she strolled back down with that smug smile, he offered her the glass before she even reached the last step and promptly raised his.

"To your household miracles, and long years of coming friendship."

Trish stared at him, short on words for once. He laughed and clinked his glass to hers.

"We call that a toast. You gotta hit the two glasses together and drink down." He kicked his head back and emptied his glass. "Sometimes people repeat the toast, or add their own."

"You don't say," Trish replied--and he knew from her tone she had definitely toasted at least once in her short time in the human world. “To my new freedom, then.”

She emptied the glass in one shot, too, then handed it to Dante with a quick shake. So she’d also learned the universal silent code for a refill, huh? Dante plucked the glass out of her hands and returned to the bottle, pouring each of them a new glass.

“Any idea what you’ll do with that freedom?” he asked. “Lady ain’t gonna house you for free forever, take my word on that. She might already be keepin’ tabs on how much money she should be charging ya.”

Trish leaned on the railing, her eyebrows arching. “According to her, you’re responsible for me--including any expenses. I hope you won’t mind covering for my last few nights out, Dante!”

Dante sputtered then laughed--he really shoulda seen that one coming. Lady never missed an opportunity to slip the bill his way, after all. Not that she hadn’t been paying for a lot of his expenses by the end of the last eight months, in addition to all the sucky paperwork she’d done for Vergil.

“That didn’t answer my question,” he pointed out, offering her the refilled glass.

“Don’t really have an answer. I don’t wanna leave just yet, but I think I’ll travel eventually? I’ve seen pictures and this whole world looks so different from the demon world.” She shrugged and sipped at her whisky. “With any luck, I can convince Lady to come with. Some humans are every bit as boring as Mundus and I wouldn’t mind the company.”

“Woah, hey!” Dante raised a hand as if to put a stop on her idea. “I was way on board, but not if you’re gonna steal my partner!”

“Maybe she'll be _my _partner by then.” Trish’s smirk returned in full force and she leaned even farther along the railing, using her few steps up to properly tower over him. “A little competition would do you some good."

"Please, as if you could ever equal the great Dante, Son of Sparda, Legendary Demon Hunter!" He spread his arms out and spun on himself before raising his glass and pointing at her. "Maybe I'll be generous and let you start a branch--keep the Devil May Cry name."

"Don't make me laugh. As if we'd want the stain of your reputation."

A stain? And who exactly had been required for tonight’s job? Which amazing devil hunter had Trish sought out to defeat Mundus? Dante grinned and downed his drink. “Trish, babe, it's high time you stop spending time with Lady and learn from a real professional."

She was saved (saved!) from answering by the bell--the door's, in this case. Dante set his glass down with a sharp clack. He'd miss Lady if she left for months on end, but that was a cool plan. Couldn't go against that, as long as they brought 'em all gifts and shit. And sent postcards. He wanted the corny travelling shit, sue him. Dante got the pizza from the delivery boy and breathed in their delightful scent.

“Well, if we can’t find a pizza that tastes like the word, you’d definitely have to go roaming until you discover the right one,” he declared. “Now let’s get to work.”

Trish laughed and leapt over the railing, joining him on the couch with all the pizza boxes. She popped one open and dug in without waiting, eating her slice with as much energy and love as Dante always put into it, too. Compared to her underwhelming initial reaction, Trish’s enthusiasm now was a joy to behold. Mundus’s death had lifted an obvious weight from her shoulders, and he could only love the gusto with which she jumped into her new life. It made him want to enjoy his own even more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgot to say:
> 
> Bonus update on December 27th, last chapter on December 31st!


	16. Suppressed Memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Vergil's lost memories and the armour sealing them cause more problems than it's worth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TFW an update contains the one thing we've all been waiting for, and also the one thing no one is expecting

Nero was still in his arms when Vergil had woken up, and the warmth against his armour had washed away the latest nightmare with ease. It hadn’t been a dream, then. His little monster had read to him until Vergil had fallen asleep, and if the book by their side was any indication, he hadn’t wanted to move afterwards. Well, neither did Vergil--not until his boy woke up by himself, certainly. He stayed put, breathing into the moment and the quiet peace it brought him.

It turned out that Nero had been dead serious about his promise to take care of Vergil. He always hovered around him now, asking if he needed more pillows or a glass of water, if he wanted Nero to turn the lights off or to scold Zio Dante for making too much noise, if he wanted to hear about his last drawing or go out and walk with him. Vergil reciprocated the attention whenever he could. He helped Nero dress up every morning or put on his snowsuit, he brought him anything shelved too high, and he accepted the offers for walks when the sun was down. It still hurt to stay under sunlight and the armour provoked too many stares, but at night with a hood to conceal most of his appearance, he could stroll with his son freely. The days were getting longer, but Vergil made good use of the early setting sun while he still could.

Once, Nero decided he ought to bathe with him so they could clean the armour and nothing could change his mind. They sat in a foot of water, a dozen different fish toys floating around them, and Nero did his best to scrub the armour with a rough sponge. It didn’t like it, and the throb of power built into a headache, but Vergil didn’t want it to stop. Every time Nero plunged the sponge back into the water, grime trailed out of it, he exclaimed _“Eww”_ loudly, and a fuzzy warmth filled Vergil to the brim. 

He tried to return the favour and help Nero clean, but the soap kept slipping out of his hands and landing in the dirty bath water. His gauntlets did not allow for the kind of dexterity needed and with the layers of water and soap, they’d turned too slippery for this delicate task. Nero eventually stopped him, reclaiming the soap for his own ends.

After half an hour, it also became obvious it wouldn’t matter how hard Nero worked; the armour remained black and stained his sponge every bit as much as on his first attempt. When faced with his son’s angry pout and struggle against frustrated tears, Vergil squeezed his shoulders and whispered Nero’s name with a shake of his head, hoping he’d understand. They changed the water and he helped Nero with his hair with clumsy, clanking movements, and somewhere at the back of his mind, Vergil remembered how much he’d always loved their quiet routines together.

Their main activity remained the reading sessions. Nero loved books, and when Vergil was awake, he often asked him if he wanted a story read to him. The answer was always yes--nothing had yet equalled the peaceful joy of Nero sitting on his lap, book in hand, reading his last loan from the library. When Trish witnessed it once, she told Nero she used to read poems to him and went hunting in Vergil’s home for his William Blake collection. She helped Nero read them, but when he asked what the words meant, Trish only shrugged. 

To him, though, those words meant the world. The poems laid at the center of a nexus of memories, each read and reread in dozens of different circumstances, each imprinted with layers of meanings. The first time Nero struggled through one, the influx of memories hit Vergil so hard he couldn’t endure the headache they brought with them. He’d gripped his head, panting, but he wished they’d never stopped. There was so much of him there, right below the surface, the urge to break the ice and sink in it increased. Perhaps he wouldn’t drown, with everyone ready to buoy him. 

Vergil knew how to break the ice, too. Dante had offered him his help on the very first day of his escape. He hadn’t been ready. He still wasn’t, truly--the thought of removing the armour paralyzed him. He knew terrible memories lurked beneath from his time under Mundus, and Lady eventually confirmed the painful times extended long before that. 

She had stayed late into the night, claiming the couch’s armrest as her own while he’d played with Nero’s whale light. It was a baby’s toy and changed colour every time one tapped it, but he’d discovered that doing so kept his mind occupied in a quiet, non-tiring sort of way. His thoughts moved from red to blue to green without straying to everything he’d forgotten or was unable to do yet, and all the ways his life had been broken into pieces he would need to glue together. The whale demanded nothing out of him but the occasional tap, and once Nero was asleep, Vergil often needed that headspace.

Lady had been surprisingly good at leaving him alone in it, only throwing him the occasional glance as he tapped the whale. He appreciated the quiet company and he couldn’t help but think they’d often stayed awake together, the night passing as they kept to themselves, only occasionally exchanging a few words. Research, he thought it was--something for her demon hunts. He had enjoyed these nights, rare as they were. Was that what she was doing now, scribbling notes in a worn down journal? He stared at it, memories clinging at the edge of his mind, and she eventually caught his questioning looks. 

“Adding some info to your old journal,” she said. “About the moth demon? Fought my own while I was with Nero, so I figured I’d add a few pointers. You were a thorough teenager, though.”

Vergil tried to recall what she was talking about, but spikes of pain dug through his temple at any mention of his teenage years and demons hunting him. He gestured for the journal, fighting off the rising nausea that often accompanied the pain, and flipped through the pages until his sight blurred and he began feeling faint. He didn’t remember writing any of it--pages upon pages of information on demons he’d fought or been pursued by, of creatures that had dogged him through childhood and teenage years. He was glad something of his past had helped, even if the memories were now locked. 

He squeezed his eyes shut until the worst of his pain passed, then struggled for words to thank her for Nero. His boy had narrated their escape together to him with great enthusiasm, heaping praise upon Lady and how cool she’d looked killing demons, and how they had worked together to keep watch and made little origami together, and many other details of his time at her place. Vergil owed her more than he could conceive, and thanks would be the least of it. Before he forced a word out, she caught his glance towards his son’s room and must have read the rest on his expression, because she brushed it away with a scoff. 

“Nothing a good business partner wouldn’t do, right?”

Vergil stared at her, confused. His memories of Lady had remained hazy, but she had been with them at the camping and at Christmas. He recalled treating her wounds and fighting by her side. He knew, in theory, that she was Dante’s devil hunting partner, yet he couldn’t understand why his twin would have entrusted Nero to her if that was the extent of her relationship with the family. So he tore a single word out to ask, intent on piecing together this particular puzzle.

“Business…?”

Lady scoffed, arms crossed. She was sitting right by his side, on the couch’s arm rest, but pointedly did not look at him. “Don’t make me say it, Vergil.”

He stared wordlessly, debating letting go until he remembered enough to know what lay unsaid there, what had been between them that he could no longer recall. He knew business partners did not strictly cover their relationship and he hated the mystery floating, seeping into their interactions in ways he couldn’t perceive. He reached up and touched her forearm, pointed gauntlets on fragile human skin.

Lady spun back to him with a huff. She didn’t meet his eyes, didn’t give him a second to react as she slapped one hand on his shoulder pauldron to steady herself, then leaned forward. Vergil froze as her lips pressed against his, soft and warm on his own cracked ones, shock and confusion spreading through him. His fingers dug into the couch as he struggled to make sense of this, to absorb the unexpected touch and all it could mean. Had they been--Could he have forgotten…?

She snapped backward, cheeks flushed, and jumped down from the couch. Lady stomped away with a frustrated _ugh_, leaving him breathless on the couch, his heart thundering and his lips warm, a million questions bouncing around his mind. Her name remained stuck in his throat as he tried to call after her. She slammed her feet into her winter boots, grabbed her coat without looking back, and forgot her rocket launcher at the door as she opened it. With one hand thrown over her shoulder in a hurried goodbye, Lady let out a strangled “See ya around!”, and then she was gone.

Not even the whale could keep his thoughts from straying after that.

###

Lady didn’t return in the following days, leaving Vergil with his hundreds of questions, none of which he dared ask Dante. His twin poked fun at him every time he could, about everything from the way he held his fork to the constant naps, which he said Vergil had once given a hard time about. Their two situations did not seem remotely similar, nap-wise, but Vergil’s main method of retort remained confined to angry glares, and at times throwing whatever he had on hand at him. Dante did not need ammunition to tease, and from the way Lady had fled that night, she wouldn’t appreciate word of this spreading. 

If he had his memories, he could at least know if… At first, Vergil pushed the thought away. Removing the armour would demand a lot out of him. He could not take that decision on a whim, out of confused frustration about the things Lady wasn’t telling him. He needed to make that decision for himself, and for Nero.

Except he woke up one night, his head pounding, power coursing through his veins. Something felt off--another presence lurking downstairs, a danger to his lord. He slid out of bed, picking up the Yamato without hesitation, and stalked out of the room. It was a demon, its power familiar, an echo twirling within his own. A worthy adversary, he reflected, one he’d relish defeating in battle. Strength pulsed through him and the lines of his armour glowed as he made his way down the stairs, one hand wrapped around the Yamato’s sheathe, the other ready to draw. 

The demon was resting on the couch, a deep cut across his chest knitting itself. Dante. His only equal, the one who’d defeated him, who’d defeated his master. He stepped closer, his blood pounding, raging with the need to fight. He needed to, he thought. It was his duty, the only way to prove himself. He had to defeat Dante.

Nelo pushed the Yamato an inch out of its sheath.

This wasn’t right. He couldn’t defeat him while he slept. He was an honourable fighter.

No. Wait. 

Did he want to fight at all? 

Panic threaded through him as his fingers wrapped around the hilt, muscles moving almost on their own, answering the call for battle threaded through his very being--nailed into his very skin, spiked through his body.

The armour. Nelo Angelo’s armour. Meant for control. This--Vergil grunted, peeled two fingers off the hilt, fighting his own body. He needed to stop.This wasn’t him. He _wasn’t_ Nelo Angelo, would never serve Mundus again.

“Vergil?” 

Dante mumbled his name, rubbing his face sleepily until he noticed the Yamato. He jolted upright, tense, his own power swirling. Vergil’s responded to it and his skull exploded from the pain. He dropped the Yamato, gripping his head with a raspy gasp and falling to his knees.

“Headache o’clock, huh?” Dante asked.

Two hands wrapped around his wrist and Vergil snarled. He needed to fight, was meant to--no, _no_. He had to calm down and get a hold of himself. Dante was here to help. They didn’t fight anymore, not unless it was together. They were brothers.

“D-Dante…”

“Right here, bro. Just tell me what you need.”

Vergil didn’t know. It felt like something had ripped his body away from him and the pain had moved from his head to the spikes along his arms, shoulders, back, and legs. Every articulation, every piece of armour--that was it. The armour. He gritted his teeth, fighting the demonic power coursing through him, threatening domination, and hooked two fingers under his vambrace, near his elbow. 

He pulled, and the armour came off in part. Spikes tore through his flesh as they pulled out and a black ooze ripped chunks of his skin off as it clung to the gauntlet. The blinding pain ripped a scream out of him and he stopped pulling, breathing hard and shaking. This was a mistake. The armour was a part of him now, they couldn’t simply remove it, he’d never survive. He shouldn’t--

“I’ll do it. Hang onto me,” Dante said, before shoving his pillow at Vergil, “and stuff that in your mouth or you’ll wake Nero.”

Nero, right. He needed to do it for Nero. He had been thinking about it a little more every day, and now this… It couldn’t stay, no matter the cost. Vergil lifted his head and met Dante’s familiar blue eyes. He was not alone. 

“Ready?” Dante asked. 

Vergil nodded, set the pillow on Dante’s shoulder, then stuffed his face in it. Dante ripped the vambrace in one brutal go, and even the pillow didn’t muffle completely Vergil’s sudden yell. His mind blanked out from the agony, everything vanishing except the steady arm around him and the burning pain in his forearm. Dante didn’t stop there--he sliced through the gauntlets and pulled them away, inflicting the skin ripping, flesh-rendering sensation on each of his fingers, before moving to the other arm. 

Vergil lost track of himself, never noticed when he’d started sobbing or crying, or how much blood had pooled under his arms, at his knees. It hurt. It hurt so much, every inch of it, yet a cool blue glow crawled across his arms and hands, soothing the pain. It worked exceedingly slowly, leaving him gasping for breath, but Dante never let him go. He held onto Vergil, whispering to him as new skin covered his arms, reddish and gashed and horribly sensible, but no longer torn to shreds. 

Four pieces off, and Vergil collapsed, his entire body shaking from pain and exhaustion. Dante lifted him, set him down on the couch, and brushed aside the long bangs stuck to his forehead and cheek. He seemed hazy to Vergil, out of focus, but he was smiling.

“Don’t think you’re up for more right now,” he said. “That was definitely your usual powers healing your arms, though, so I think demon dad’s somewhere under all that metal junk.” He kicked at the bloodied gauntlets on the ground once. “How are ya feeling?”

Horrible, he thought, but the word wouldn’t come. Yet he found he could still more easily wrap his head around others, spoken before, so he assembled them into a sentence. 

“Thank you, Dante.”

Dante tapped his shoulder pauldron. “No problem. I told ya, we’ll take that shit off when and how you want it. Was it fucking around with your mind?”

“Y-yes.”

Vergil closed his eyes. He should have nodded instead of forcing the word out, but the sound of his own voice grounded him. It remained too deep, too grating, but it was his. He had no idea how long it’d take to remove the whole armour, but his mind already felt clearer from his freed forearms, and when his hands stopped shaking, he knew he’d be able to handle delicate tasks once more. Every inch of his body still hurt and his head pounded, but when he stared at his naked fingers, he couldn’t help but smile.

Nero had the same reaction the following day. He reached for the arms with a surprised “Da’!” but let his small hands hover above without touching. Vergil completed the movement, gently taking his son’s hand in his. His skin prickled with every contact, but he refused to deny himself the softness of Nero’s skin. He ran his fingers along his son’s arm, then on his cheek and through his hair, his smile widening with every moment.

“Nero,” he whispered.

He could remember so much more now--countless baths or fights through toilet training, a day at the aquarium holding his hands while he pointed at every fish, a night holding him close as he fought a fever… so many memories gently trickling in, and so many more still encased in the armour, kept from him. 

Nero wrapped himself around his forearm, hugging it. “I love you, Da’.”

Vergil closed his eyes. He would never tire of hearing this. It didn’t matter how much pain he had to go through, how much he had to sacrifice. He would do it all, if it let him live with Nero once more and love his son the way he truly deserved. He didn’t care for the armour to steady him, not if it kept him away from himself. They had a long way to go still, but Nero loved him, and with every piece removed, he’d be a little closer to the demon dad his son remembered. This time, his voice came easily, the words wrapped around his very soul.

“I love you too, little monster.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just. Want to say right away that I know this reads like I'm heading straight into Vergil/Lady land, but I really have no intention of writing clear cut romance stuff. More like... two messy adults don't know how to call their respective feelings and deal with them and are going to be messy and confused about them for a long time. And Nero & Vergil will always be the focus of this series. Anyway, I'm rambling, which is how you know i'm slightly insecure because of how out of my usual grounds this is. But yeah!! This is what made the most sense to me as I wrote it, so this is how it's gonna be, and I'm in truth really excited about future messiness.


	17. Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Vergil, Lady, and Nero have a small family outing.

_Words crawl_  
_A proof  
_ _Of self_

Vergil set down the pen. Lady had thought writing might be easier for him than speaking and dumped a brand new journal on his lap, declaring he needed a new place “for poetry and whatever else”. He stared at the few words he had managed and sighed.

This was a foolish endeavour. Every word cost him, written or spoken, and he had a long way to go to recover. Mundus was dead, however, so he’d thought… A new life, with a new journal. His hands had remained sensitive, even a week after tearing off the gauntlet, but he could write without hurting. Not that it was any easier. The armour sought to limit every way he could express himself. With Mundus dead, it had limited control over him, yet it nonetheless turned every word into a battle. The few lines written had left him exhausted, but he was glad he’d put them down. These poems were for no one but himself--his truth, no matter how ugly.

The door flung open and he slapped a hand over the journal, half-convinced Dante would stroll in and decide he needed to read. Instead, Nero sprinted into the office, making a beeline for Vergil and the desk while Lady followed in. They’d left together to take a stroll around the local park, but Vergil had declined the outing: no clouds dampened the sunlight and nightmares had haunted him until dawn. They’d become more powerful since Dante had freed his arms, sometimes creeping into his time awake and blurring the lines of reality with phantom pain--and sleep escaped him until he turned so exhausted he could barely stand. As much as he wanted to spend every minute he had with Nero, there was little point to them if his mind strayed away from exhaustion.

“Da’!” Nero called, stretching his arms to be picked up.

Vergil touched his nose, in awe at the joy his son exuded. Every time Nero left his vicinity, he forgot how radiant his boy’s smile was, only to rediscover it minutes or hours later when Nero returned. He never tired of the feeling. Vergil lifted Nero and set him on the desk so they’d almost be eye level. He pulled his journal away from Nero’s wet snowsuit.

“Started writing in it, demon dad?” Lady asked, striding through the office without chucking the snow off her boots first. No one cared how much snow they spread on Dante’s floor, Dante least of all. Vergil placed his hand on the journal and nodded. “Good.”

He had seen Lady twice since she had kissed him, and she acted like it had never happened. He might have thought he’d imagined it but whenever he stared too long, her cheeks turned rosy and she snapped at him. It stoked his irritation, and as words demanded too much out of him, he resorted to glaring even harder. It did nothing to help the situation.

“Da’, you have to come,” Nero declared, kicking his small legs and gesturing wildly. “There is maple taffy at the park!”

He leaned forward and gripped Vergil’s bare and redenned arm, as if to pull him. Vergil pressed his lips into a thin line, his heart hammering. He had no desire to go out into the sunlight, but the longer Nero pouted at him, the more his resistance melted.

“He insisted we return to get you,” Lady explained. “Apparently, you never introduced him to maple taffy last year. For shame.”

She tsked, and everything in her tone implied a challenge. His pride rose to meet it, and he was on his feet before he’d thought through the consequences, lifting a wet, fully-dressed Nero in his arms. Lady snorted, but a smile flitted across her lips.

“I’ll get your cape, demon dad. Ya don’t feel the cold anyway, right?”

He confirmed, then turned his attention to Nero, snug in his arms. He enjoyed the slick texture of his snowsuit against his now bare forearm, if only for how lively the sensation was. Every touch had turned into an experience, as if he’d forgotten the world was full of relief--though in truth, very little compared to the soft fluffiness of Nero’s hair. He threaded his fingers through them now, and Nero replied in kind, stretching until he reached Vergil’s hair. His balance wavered halfway through, however, and he wound up pulling large bangs of it down, partly covering Vergil’s face. When he gasped and tried to fix his mistake, Vergil gently grabbed his wrist and shook his head.

“But Da’--”

Vergil secured Nero more tightly in one arm, then shifted his hair with his left hand, using the bangs to further conceal the blue lines crawling up part of his face and up to his red eye. Nero touched them lightly, then reached up and brought even more hair down, eager to help. Although it had not been strictly necessary to lower as much, Vergil could only smile and allow Nero his contribution.

“Looking good,” Lady called from the stairs before flinging his large cloak at him.

He snatched it up midair, then reluctantly set Nero down and draped himself in it. He’d still seem overly bulky under it, but between that and the hair pulled down, he might avoid most insistent stares. Vergil pulled the hood up, then wiggled his fingers in Nero’s direction. His son immediately snatched the offered hand and beamed at him.

“It’s taffy time!”

Vergil knew he would pay for this outing later in the day, when exhaustion would thread every muscle and his mind would function as if through a thick fog. He knew the sun would scorch his eyes and hands, the pain prickling at him every minute spent outside. He knew he’d catch himself staring at Lady and wondering what he’d forgotten, even though he couldn’t even begin to think of anything kiss-related, not when he was only half-himself, had so much to mend still, and owed Nero all the love and attention he could muster when not sleeping. This was a bad decision in many regards, yet when faced with Nero’s obvious joy, he found no room in himself for regrets.

###

Children at the park gave Vergil a wide berth as they approach the rustic wooden structures set up for the week, where a small team of Québécois had set up shop with fresh maple sap and boilers in one area, and long wooden trays with packed snow in another. As much as he would have preferred to stay back, Nero pulled on his hand, dragging him through the crowd to hear the heavily-accented explanation of how _tire d’érable_ was made. Vergil picked him up once they were close enough to hear, setting him on his shoulders so he’d have a great view of the beaten up pots in which the sap was being heated. Some had already been served, but Nero would enjoy the fresh batch more if he saw it being made from start to finish.

Lady hadn’t followed, but when he glanced back, he noticed she’d already sniped three wooden sticks for them and hovered near the trays. He suspected she’d had to pay for those and hoped he’d remember to ask later, somehow.

Vergil refocused on Nero’s weight on his shoulders and the tiny hands gripping his hood, trying to ignore the scratchy, prickling feeling on his hands and forearms the sun left. He had been in the human world for almost three weeks now, yet he suspected he’d need even longer to properly readapt to it. Part of him worried about the unforgiving summer days to come and he hoped he wouldn’t be forced inside while Nero played outside. He didn’t want to miss more than he already had, even though he knew exhausting himself would only prolong his recovery. It grated him, and Vergil had the distinct impression he’d never had to rest and heal for long periods in his life.

The crowd shifted as the sap turned into a brown syrupy substance, drawing Vergil out of his thoughts. He wondered how long he’d slipped, tuning out the explanations in favour of the quietness of his mind, but some considerations were best left unanswered. He gripped Nero’s legs, locked eyes on Lady, and made his way to her. She handed Nero his stick and they crowded around the trays of packed snow, waiting for the staff to come by with their pots. Vergil brought Nero down and held him at the snow’s level so he could roll his own stick. No one stayed close to them, and he did not need to ask why. Cloaks and bangs of hair could not hide how out of place he was among all the cute little families. They stared, wary, but Nero didn’t seem to care and at the end of the day, that was what mattered.

Nero gasped as the syrup was finally spread on ice in front of him and immediately slammed his stick into it, eager to taste it. Lady laughed and caught his hand, telling him he had to wait for it to cool a little. She counted aloud and Nero repeated the numbers, and after three long seconds she helped him start to roll. Vergil watched, silent, holding his boy steady as he created his roll and promptly shoved it into his mouth. His face morphed into pure delight and he clamped his lips harder, working hard to eat his stick as fast as he could. Lady rolled a second stick while Nero ate his and extended it to Vergil.

He had forgotten how extremely sweet _tire d’érable _was, in an irresistible way. His own stick was gone and eaten before he’d even realized he was devouring it, and since no one dared to stay too close to them, Vergil, Nero, and Lady had free reign on the several lines of _tire _on their half of the tray. Not half an hour had passed before they had stuffed themselves full of sugar, hands sticky from the _tire _melting as they ate, Nero’s continuous muffled _hmms_ of satisfaction mixing in with the trad music playing from speakers nearby. It didn’t take long before his boy became jittery from all the sugar and squirmed to get down. The moment Vergil set him on the ground, he sprinted off, running towards the area where they boiled more syrup.

They followed him as he ran around it and grabbed the coat of the lady behind the counter, immediately bombarding her with questions. Vergil hung back, uncertain if his intervention would be welcome. She was answering Nero’s countless interrogation with a smile, stirring the sap on her heater, and he allowed himself a moment to drift, the girl’s accent a strange music in his ears as he scanned the park. Vergil had no idea if he’d been here before; the playground and trees were entirely unfamiliar, though that could be attributed to his faulty memory. The area must have seen better days, as was the case of most of Dante’s neighbourhood, but plenty of play zones remained and he suspected the wide, empty expenses were baseball or soccer fields. Children ran across the snow, small legs sinking into the less packed area, and when Vergil returned his attention to Nero, a snowball had found its way into his hands--his, and Lady’s.

The balls smashed into him one after the other, cold and wet against his skin, and he startled. A violent impulse ran through him, speeding his heart and tensing his muscles, brutal force responding to the challenge. Vergil clenched his hands, fighting the urge to run up to Lady and grab her by the neck. The battle sent lancing pain through his mind and along his spine, where a dozen spikes held the armour steady, and he stumbled back with a grunt.

“Da’?” Nero asked, and he half-sprinted, half-stumbled across the snowy grounds to him, wrapping mittens around Vergil’s bare hand. “Are you… being sick?”

Vergil squeezed his child’s hand, grounding himself in the small voice and the hands on his. He didn’t need to fight. Snowballs were not an attack. He inhaled, counted to seven, exhaled. Nero waited, eyes wide, until Vergil met his eyes once more and managed a weak smile. Lady had come up behind the child and set hands on his shoulders.

“How about you show your dad the mean throwing arm all of Dante’s baseball lessons gave you? Snowball-fight me, see if your aim’s better than mine?”

Nero tilted his head up and bent backward to look at her, and the worry in his expression gave way to a sharp determination, intimately familiar to Vergil. His son had been challenged, and he would not back down without a fight. Warmth filled him as he sprinted off to play with Lady, small legs often sinking into the snow. A year and a half had passed since he’d first discovered snow, and though the memories of that day were fuzzy and incomplete, Vergil remembered the snowballs Nero had thrown back then, too. His aim had definitely grown better, and he squealed every time he landed a hit on Lady, who was definitely not moving as fast as she could. Vergil found a bench and settled down to watch, glad for the pause in the day and the change to bring his arms under the cloak and out of the sun.

He had no idea how long he’d spent there, absentmindedly watching Nero play, when the québécoise Nero had badgered with question settled in the bench next to him.

“That your little family, huh?” she asked, shoving a stick of taffy in her mouth and another in his hands.

Vergil tilted his head in assent. She had no doubt mistaken the nature of his relationship with Lady, although at this point Vergil would be hard-pressed to explain what _that _was, or what it had been, but he nevertheless felt the term ‘family’ was an apt descriptor. Nero had taken to calling her Zia Lady and she was scattered across so many memories, he could only imagine her initial use of ‘business partners’ had been a euphemism born from their early meetings. Of course, Dante was missing from today’s outing to make the family portrait complete, but Vergil did not have the words or energy to explain this to a stranger.

“Well, I’m sure you got a lot going under that cloak, mon gars, but it’s always nice to get curious kids asking so many questions. You got a good boy there. I hope we’ll see you again next year.”

She finished her stick, flicked it into the nearby trash can, and left him there to eat his own. Quiet pride filled Vergil at her words for Nero, and it occurred to him that there would be no reason for them not to fulfill her wishes and return next year. No demons hounded him now, a looming threat over his family. In the end, Mundus _had _found him, and yet here he was. Vergil had survived, Nero was healthy and happy, and family and friends surrounded them, ready to help with the struggle to come. Vergil closed his eyes, listening to the melody of Nero’s excited screams as he threw snowballs at Lady. Countless nightmares and terrible pain still awaited him, but he could face them. With Nero, Lady, and Dante by his side, he could face anything.

###

Whatever pizza-hunting-and-demon adventures Dante and Trish had left on was taking a buttload of time, and Lady didn’t know if she ought to complain or not. It’d been a sweet day, which mostly made her more confused about everything, no matter how determined she was to ignore all of it. They’d come home from an afternoon of sugar rush and snowfights and she’d let Vergil nap in the living room while she scrounged dinner from Dante’s fridge, kept carefully provisioned for those times a responsible adult needed to cook. It wasn’t much, but fried chicken thrown in with a bunch of vegetables and cheap premade teriyaki sauce kept Nero happy and everyone fed. Plus, the kid got to stir it, an act which made him gleeful.

They settled into the couch after the meal, each on one side of Vergil. It was a little early for Nero’s bedtime, but the day’s constant running around had exhausted him. Lady picked up a book for the pile and started the story, knowing she would never get to the end. And indeed, Nero had fallen asleep halfway through, his body slipping down on Vergil little by little until he'd slid all the way, head on his father's lap, one leg thrown over the couch's side and white bangs partly covering his hair. Lady's voice trailed off and she leaned forward to stare at his sleepy smile, softness drifting into her expression. She closed the book, set it aside, and machinally pushed the bang aside.

Silence blanketed the room, settling upon their shoulders as seconds passed by. Vergil hadn’t moved. He’d listened to her read with his head bent forward, his attention split between the child against him and her words. His long hair masked most of his expression from this angle, but she’d seen him soften around Nero often enough to imagine it without fail. It had a different feel now, when blue lines crawled up from his neck to cover most of his right cheek and one eye shone an angry red no matter what. His mellowing felt… more precious and fragile, and she hadn’t realized how much she’d come to care for it until she’d first stepped back into Vergil’s place and watched the crestfallen look on his face as Nero rejected him.

Lady hated the confusing wave of aggressive warmth brought up by even thinking of Vergil--like she wanted to explode a hundred different demons as retribution for his pain, but also banter with him until she’d drawn that sharp chuckle of pleased surprise he’d once had. Neither of which she’d done. Nope. Instead, she’d kissed him and fled like some teenage girl with a big, unresolved crush. Ugh, what an idiot! And he had to be thinking of that moment right now, the first they’d been alone since she’d turned everything into a mess.

“Lady…”

Eight months in Hell had given his voice a deep, raspy quality she’d yet to get used to. Her breath caught and heat climbed into her cheeks. She still had no idea what to tell him or why she’d even done that, mostly because she did her best to _not _think about it and all the ways she’d made it weird. Lady snatched her hand away from Nero’s hair.

“Shut up,” she snapped, jumping up. “It was nothing!”

She stomped away, but firm fingers clasped on her wrist after a single stride, holding her back. Lady whirled around, her heart slamming hard against her chest as she got caught in Vergil eyes--one pale and blue and full of confusion, the other shining red, half-hidden by white hair. Thick silence filled the space between them as he fought for his too-rare words.

“Were we…” He squeezed his fingers, cracked lips moving but unable to form another word.

_Were we what_, she thought--then it hit her. Horror coiled at the bottom of her stomach. Fuck. Did he… did he not remember? Had he spent the last week thinking they’d been… a couple? _Fuck_. A sharp, barking laugh escaped her, the manifestation of her rising, embarrassed panic. She’d let him think--What a fucking idiot--

Lady slapped a hand over her eyes and stepped back, shaking her head, the thread of another hysteric laugh in her voice. “Us? Of-of course not!”

Hurt and confusion flickered through his face as he released her wrist, killing her mirth. Stars, had he been hoping for it? Why the fuck would he want that? Did he--No no no, this was a bad direction for her thoughts, she didn’t want to go there. This was a mess, a total wreck, and it wasn’t fair to him.

“Vergil. You don’t remember me much, do you?”

He pressed his lips together and looked away, his hand settling over Nero’s shoulder as he stared straight ahead. She stalked around to face him--no way she was gonna talk to his damn hair bang about this shit. It was hard enough to address it at all to begin with! Lady crossed her arms and tried not to guess at which bits he remembered, and which he didn’t. It’d all come back once they ripped that armour off his back, no?

“Look, your memory’s swiss cheese and you have Nero to focus on. I shouldn’t have done that. No, we weren’t… we weren’t anything. And right now, you’re a mess and it wasn’t fair to you, so let’s just… forget it ever happened. Okay?” If she could never, ever think or talk about that again, she’d be golden.

Vergil bent his head to look at Nero, sleeping on his lap, and the lines baring his forehead vanished. There was that soft expression again, that one look she’d never have imagined on the jerk calling her a foolish girl years ago--the one which had upturned everything she thought she knew about Dante’s twin, met briefly to a disastrous result on the Temen-ni-gru. Lady gritted her teeth and waited, calling upon every ounce of patience she had. Words still didn’t agree with Vergil.

“You… stay family. Right?”

Heat climbed through Lady at the hitch in his voice, the sheer amount of worry and hope twined together. He wanted her to be family--thought of her as such. What the fuck was she supposed to answer to that? She needed to break this mood and fast before her own feelings spilled out again, so she laughed it off and poked Vergil’s forehead, pushing him back. “Of course, demon dad. I’m Zia Lady now and that’s never gonna change. No one escapes your little monster’s forceful adopting techniques.”

He smiled and responded with a solemn nod, brushing Nero’s hair with his hand. The knots in Lady’s stomach loosened. You could always count on Nero to provide an exit from awkwardness of all sorts. She stepped back and stretched, preparing to make her exit. To her great dismay, Vergil hadn’t finished with the big feelings.

“Lady.” He paused again, and she knew he’d gotten her name out to force her to wait. She huffed, tense. He inhaled, a slow and deep breath while he ran a hand through his hair and slicked the bangs back. “Thank you. For…” He gestured at Nero, then at their surroundings in general.

Thanks from Vergil! You could tell Mundus had done a number on him, if he worked so hard to get those out despite the efforts required. Not that she’d complain about that particular outcome.

“Saving your kid? Cleaning up the mess Dante left in your flat? Paying your rent for months so you’d have a home to return to? Teaching Nero how to read? Filing a shitton of weird and fake paperwork because you had _no _official identity and Nero needs to exist in a file somewhere? Finding a proper school for him?” Now was absolutely not the time to tell him half of these had required she fake an identity as his wife--there would _never _be a time for that. She smirked at Vergil. “I had a hefty tab running after you saved me from Phantom and let me crash on your couch. But good business partners pay their debts, Vergil, and I think we can call it quits now.”

She extended a hand, and if the amused glint in his gaze was any indication, he remembered either their encounter with Phantom or enough of their endless tradings to understand her reference. Vergil clasped soft, barely healed hands into hers and shook, sealing that particular deal.

When Lady left the flat that night, she felt lighter than she had in well over a year. Vergil’s disappearance had been an ordeal for all of them, and even after he’d returned, she’d promptly messed up the fragile balance of their relationship. She was never supposed to have cared that much, and especially not in that particular fashion. Worse, she still couldn’t tell if she really did, or if it’d been a spur of the moment thing, never to be repeated.

But now they’d found common ground again, a label they could both quietly accept while burying the slightest whiff of existential crisis: family. She was cool with being Nero’s Awesome Bazooka Zia, even (especially) if that meant being part of Vergil’s close circle in addition to Dante’s. Family--_her family_\--could be a worn down, disastrous dad with his adorable kid and the goofy uncle who’d give everything for them. These twins would be the death of her, but as Lady returned home, she found herself at peace with the idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The moment I wrote that short Nelo Angelo poem, I grew addicted to it. I have like a dozen written of these written, not all of them good, but gosh I had fun. Nelo Angelo/Vergil writing poetry as a mean to recover himself is now way at the top of my favourite headcanons. 
> 
> This chapter also concludes not only this fic, but what I think of as "Disaster Dad Season 1". There is absolutely a Season 2, which is all about Vergil's recovery, Nero's first few years at school, and woven through it, some of that confused messy Vergil/Lady. It is, however, not written as we speak, online outlined. Furthermore, I have commitments in both original and fan fiction that I really need to get to. I love this universe and I have countless ideas and things I wanna do with it, and I am incredibly thankful for all the love and comments it has received through the months. It still has to go on hiatus, most likely until Dadgil Week in June. I'm as sorry about it as y'all are, I'm pretty sure, but my days only have so many hours. I'm setting the series as complete until I move out of hiatus, but subscribe if you want the alert for new fics in it. Or you can [follow me on twitter. ](https://twitter.com/writingsquid)
> 
> I do still have fics to post on Sundays, though! The rest of the Familiars AU is written and mostly ready to go, so I will have that going until March. :) If you're in the mood for Vergil bonding back with his three familiars and building a found family out of it, [the first fic is here.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18876523/chapters/44805235)
> 
> With that, it's December 31st here, so Happy New Year everyone!! May 2020 be a good one for you. :]


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